The  Two  Paths-Love  s  Meinie 


ALSO 

VAL  D'ARNO 
THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND 
MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE— TIME  AND  TIDE 
THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND 
NOTES  ON  THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS 

BY 

JOHN  RUSK  IN.  M.A. 

author  of  "the  seven  lamps  of  architecture,"  11  the  crown  of  wild  olive," 
"sesame  and  lilies,"  etc, 


BOSTON 
ALDINE  BOOK  PUBLISHING  CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


CONTENTS. 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 

lecture  I.  PAt_ 

The  Deteriorative  Power  of  Conventional  Art  over 
Nations,  ...... 

LECTURE  II. 
The  Unity  of  Art,  ..... 

LECTURE  III. 
Modern  Manufacture  and  Design, 

LECTURE  IV. 
The  Influence  of  Imagination  in  Architecture,  . 

LECTURE  V. 
The  Work  of  Iron,  in  Nature,  Art,  and  Policy, 


9 

54 
77 


103 

APPENDICES,     .         .         .         .  .         .  .135 

LOVE'S  MEINIE. 

LECTURE  I. 

The  Robin,        ...         .         .         .         .  .157 

LECTURE  II. 

The  Swallow,         .......  180 


The  Relation  between  Michael  Angelo  and  T  into  ret, 


211 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 

riGURE.  PAGE 

1.  Long  Feathers  ok  Robins  Wing   .  173 

2.  «            "         "                  "            ...  174 

3.  The  Swallow  on  the  Wing          .         .         .  -194 

4.  A  Reptilian  or  Dragon's  Wing          .         .         .  196 

5.  Section  of  Wing        .         .         .         .         .  .197 

6.  Wing  of  a  Seagull,  open         .....  19S 

7.  "  "  closed  ....  199 
,°  Outline  of  Wing  Bones  ....  200 
9.  Outer  surface  of  Seagulls  Wing           .  .  201 

10.  Inner      "         "         "           "  2*2 

11.  Tops  of  the  four  lowest  feathers  in  figure  9,  .  203 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 

PAGE 

The  Ideal  of  an  Angel    .         .         .         .         .  .22 

The  Serpent  beguiling  Eve  .         .  .  24 

Contrast        ........  64 

Symmetry  .......  64 

Ornament      ........  65 

Classical  Architecture         .....  141 

Centre  piece  of  Balcony  .         .         .         .         .  .147 

General  Effect  of  Masses     .         .         ,         .  .147 
Profile  .         .         .         .         .         .         .  .148 

Teeth  of  the  Border  .         .         f         ...  149 

Border  at  the  side  of  Balcony  .         .         .  .149 

Outline  of  retracted  Leaves         ....  149 


Nicholas  the  Pisan 
John  the  Pisan 
Shield  and  Apron 
Parted  Per  Pale 
Pax  Vobiscum 
Marble  Couchant 
Marble  Rampant 
Franchise 
The  Tyrrhene  Sea 
Fleur  de  Lys 
Appendix 


VAL  DARNO. 

LECTURE  I. 

LECTURE  II. 
LECTURE  III. 
LECTURE  IV. 

LECTURE  V. 
LECTURE  VI. 
LECTURE  VII. 
LECTURE  VIII. 
LECTURE  IX. 

LECTURE  X. 


PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 

LECTURE  I. 
The  Pleasures  of  Learning.    Bertha  to  Osburga 

LECTURE  II. 
The  Pleasures  of  Faith.    Alfred  to  the  Confessor 

LECTURE  III. 
The  Pleasures  of  Deed.   Alfred  to  Cosur  de  Lion 


LIST  OF  PLATES. 


VAL  D'ARNO. 

PLATE  FACING  PAGE 

The  Ancient  Shores  of  Arno,  ....  239 

I.  The  Pisan  Latona,      .....  248 

II.  NlCCOLA  PISANO'S  PULPIT,                .            .            .            .  25 1 

ill.  The  Fountain  of  Perugia     ....  257 

IV.  Norman  Imagery,    ......  264 

V.  Door  of  the  Baptistery.    Pisa       .         .         .  305 

VI.  The  Story  of  St.  John.   Advent        .         .         .  308 

VII.  "       "      "     "      "      Departure        .         .  308 

VIII.  "The  Charge  to  Adam."   Giovanni  Pisano   .         .  314 

IX.  "         "       "       "       Modern  Italian         .  352 

X.  The  Nativity.    Giovanni  Pisano        .         .         .  364 

XL  "         "          Modern  Italian     .         .         .  374 

XII.  The  Annunciation  and  Visitation      .         .         •  376 


PEE  FACE. 


The  following  addresses,  though  spoken  at  different  times, 
are  intentionally  connected  in  subject ;  their  aim  being  to  set 
one  or  two  main  principles  of  art  in  simple  light  before  the 
general  student,  and  to  indicate  their  practical  bearing  on 
modern  design.  The  law  which  it  has  been  my  effort  chiefly  to 
illustrate  is  the  dependence  of  all  noble  design,  in  any  kind, 
on  the  sculpture  or  painting  of  Organic  Form, 

This  is  the  vital  law ;  lying  at  the  root  of  all  that  I  have  ever 
tried  to  teach  respecting  architecture  or  any  other  art.  It  is 
also  the  lawr  most  generally  disallowed. 

I  "believe  this  must  be  so  in  every  subject.  We  are  all  of  us 
willing  enough  to  accept  dead  truths  or  blunt  ones  ;  which 
can  be  fitted  harmlessly  into  spare  niches,  or  shrouded  and 
coffined  at  once  out  of  the  way,  we  holding  complacently  the 
cemetery  keys,  and  supposing  we  have  learned  something. 
But  a  sapling  truth,  with  earth  at  its  root  and  blossom  on  its 
branches  ;  or  a  trenchant  truth,  that  can  cut  its  way  through 
bars  and  sods  ;  most  men,  it  seems  to  me,  dislike  the  sight  or 
entertainment  of,  if  by  any  means  such  guest  or  vision  may  be 
avoided.  And,  indeed,  this  is  no  wonder  ;  for  one  such  truth, 
thoroughly  accepted,  connects  itself  strangely  with  others, 
and  there  is  no  saying  what  it  may  lead  us  to. 

And  thus  the  gist  of  what  I  have  tried  to  teach  about  archi- 
tecture has  been  throughout  denied  by  my  architect  readers, 
even  when  they  thought  what  I  said  suggestive  in  other  par- 
ticulars. "  Anything  but  that.  Study  Italian  Gothic  ? — per- 
haps it  would  be  as  well :  build  with  pointed  arches  ? — there 
is  no  objection :  use  solid  stone  and  well-burnt  brick  ? — by  all 
means  :  but — learn  to  carve  or  paint  organic  form  ourselves  ! 


4 


PiljutACE. 


How  can  such  a  thing  be  asked?  We  are  above  all  that 
The  carvers  and  painters  are  our  servants — quite  subordinate 
people.    They  ought  to  be  glad  if  we  leave  room  for  them." 

Well :  on  that  it  all  turns.  For  those  who  will  not  learn  to» 
carve  or  paint,  and  think  themselves  greater  men  because 
they  cannot,  it  is  wholly  wasted  time  to  read  any  words  of 
mine  ;  in  the  truest  and  sternest  sense  they  can  read  no  words 
of  mine  ;  for  the  most  familiar  I  can  use — •"form,"  "propor- 
tion," "  beauty,"  "  curvature,"  "  colour" — are  used  in  a  sense 
which  by  no  effort  I  can  communicate  to  such  readers  ;  and  in 
no  building  that  I  praise,  is  the  thing  that  I  praise  it  for, 
visible  to  them. 

And  it  is  the  more  necessary  for  me  to  state  this  fully  ;  be- 
cause so-called  Gothic  or  Eomanesque  buildings  are  now  rising 
every  day  around  us,  which  might  be  supposed  by  the  public 
more  or  less  to  embody  the  principles  of  those  styles,  but 
which  embody  not  one  of  them,  nor  any  shadow  or  fragment 
of  them  ;  but  merely  serve  to  caricature  the  noble  buildings 
of  past  ages,  and  to  bring  their  form  into  dishonour  by  leav- 
ing out  their  soul. 

The  following  addresses  are  therefore  arranged,  as  I  have 
just  stated,  to  put  this  great  law,  and  one  or  two  collateral 
ones,  in  less  mistakeable  light,  securing  even  in  this  irregular 
form  at  least  clearness  of  assertion.  For  the  rest,  the  question 
at  issue  is  not  one  to  be  decided  by  argument,  but  by  experi- 
ment, which  if  the  reader  is  disinclined  to  make,  all  demon- 
stration must  be  useless  to  him. 

The  lectures  are  for  the  most  part  printed  as  they  were 
read,  mending  only  obscure  sentences  here  and  there.  The 
parts  which  were  trusted  to  extempore  speaking  are  supplied, 
as  well  as  I  can  remember  (only  with  an  addition  here  and 
there  of  things  I  forgot  to  say),  in  the  words,  or  at  least  the 
kind  of  words,  used  at  the  time  ;  and  they  contain,  at  all 
events,  the  substance  of  what  I  said  more  accurately  than 
hurried  journal  reports.  I  must  beg  my  readers  not  in  general 
to  trust  to  such,  for  even  in  fast  speaking  I  try  to  use  words 
carefully  ;  and  any  alteration  of  expression  will  sometimes  in- 
volve a  great  alteration  in  meaning.    A  little  while  ago  I  had 


PREFACE. 


5 


to  speak  of  an  architectural  design,  and  called  it  "  elegant," 
meaning,  founded  on  good  and  well  "  elected  "  models  ;  the 
printed  report  gave  "  excellent"  design  (that  is  to  say,  design 
excellingly  good),  which  I  did  not  mean,  and  should,  even  in 
the  most  hurried  speaking,  never  have  said. 

The  illustrations  of  the  lecture  on  iron  were  sketches  made 
too  roughly  to  be  engraved,  and  yet  of  too  elaborate  subjects 
to  allow  of  my  drawing  them  completely.  Those  now  sub- 
stituted will,  however,  answer  the  purpose  nearly  as  well,  and 
are  more  directly  connected  with  the  subjects  of  the  preceding 
lectures  ;  so  that  I  hope  throughout  the  volume  the  student 
will  perceive  an  insistance  upon  one  main  truth,  nor  lose  in 
any  minor  direction  of  inquiry  the  sense  of  the  responsibility 
which  the  acceptance  of  that  truth  fastens  upon  him  ;  responsi- 
bility for  choice,  decisive  and  conclusive,  between  two  modes 
of  study,  which  involve  ultimately  the  development,  or  deaden- 
ing, of  every  power  he  possesses.  I  have  tried  to  hold  that 
choice  clearly  out  to  him,  and  to  unveil  for  him  to  its  far- 
thest the  issue  of  his  turning  to  the  right  hand  or  the  left. 
Guides  he  may  find  many,  and  aids  many ;  but  all  these  will 
be  in  vain  unless  he  has  first  recognised  the  hour  and  the 
point  of  life  when  the  way  divides  itself,  one  way  leading  to 
the  Olive  mountains — one  to  the  vale  of  the  Salt  Sea.  There 
are  few  cross  roads,  that  I  know  of,  from  one  to  the  other. 
Let  him  pause  at  the  parting  of  The  Two  Paths. 


THE  TWO  PATHS 

BETNG 

LECTURES  ON  ART,  AND  ITS  APPLICATION  TO  DECORATION 
AND  MANUFACTURE  DELIVERED  IN  1858-9. 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


LECTUKE  I. 

THE  DETERIORATIVE   POWER   OF    CONVENTIONAL  ART  OVER  NATIONS* 

An  Inaugural  Lecture,  Delivered  at  the  Kensington 
Museum,1  January,  1858. 

As  I  passed,  last  summer,  for  the  first  time,  through  the 
north  of  Scotland,  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  a  peculiar 
painfulness  in  its  scenery,  caused  by  the  non-manifestation 
of  the  powers  of  human  art.  I  had  never  travelled  in,  nor 
even  heard  or  conceived  of  such  a  country  before ;  nor, 
though  I  had  passed  much  of  my  life  amidst  mountain 
scenery  in  the  south,  was  I  before  aware  how  much  of  its 
charm  depended  on  the  little  gracefulnesses  and  tendernesses 
of  human  work,  which  are  mingled  with  the  beauty  of  the 
Alps,  or  spared  by  their  desolation.  It  is  true  that  the  art 
which  carves  and  colours  the  front  of  a  Swiss  cottage  is  not  of 
any  very  exalted  kind ;  yet  it  testifies  to  the  completeness 
and  the  delicacy  of  the  faculties  of  the  mountaineer  ;  it  is  true 
that  the  remnants  of  tower  and  battlement,  which  afford  foot- 
ing to  the  wild  vine  on  the  Alpine  promontory,  form  but  a 

1  A  few  introductory  words,  in  which,  at  the  opening  of  this  lecture, 
I  thanked  the  Chairman  (Mr.  Cockerell),  for  his  support  on  the  occa- 
sion, and  asked  his  pardon  for  any  hasty  expressions  in  my  writings, 
which  might  have  seemed  discourteous  towards  him,  or  other  architects 
whose  general  opinions  were  opposed  to  mine,  may  be  found  by  those 
who  care  for  preambles,  not  much  misreported,  in  the  Building  Chroni- 
cle ;  with  such  comments  as  the  genius  of  that  journal  was  likely  to 
suggest  to  it. 


10 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


small  part  of  the  great  serration  of  its  rocks  ;  and  yet  it  is 
just  that  fragment  of  their  broken  outline  which  gives  them 
their  pathetic  power,  and  historical  majesty.  And  this 
element  among  the  wilds  of  our  own  country  I  found  wholly 
wanting.  The  Highland  cottage  is  literally  a  heap  of  gray 
stones,  choked  up,  rather  than  roofed  over,  with  black  peat 
and  withered  heather  ;  the  only  approach  to  an  effort  at 
decoration  consists  in  the  placing  of  the  clods  of  protective 
peat  obliquely  on  its  roof,  so  as  to  give  a  diagonal  arrange- 
ment of  lines,  looking  somewhat  as  if  the  surface  had  been 
scored  over  by  a  gigantic  claymore. 

And,  at  least  among  the  northern  hills  of  Scotland,  elements 
of  more  ancient  architectural  interest  are'  equally  absent. 
The  solitary  peel-house  is  hardly  discernible  by  the  windings 
of  the  stream  ;  the  roofless  aisle  of  the  priory  is  lost  among 
the  enclosures  of  the  village  ;  and  the  capital  city  of  the 
Highlands,  Inverness,  placed  where  it  might  ennoble  one  of 
the  sweetest  landscapes,  and  by  the  shore  of  one  of  the  love- 
liest estuaries  in  the  world  ; — placed  between  the  crests  of  the 
Grampians  and  the  flowing  of  the  Moray  Firth,  as  if  it  were  a 
jewel  clasping  the  folds  of  the  mountains  to  the  blue  zone  of 
the  sea, — is  only  distinguishable  from  a  distance  by  one 
architectural  feature,  and  exalts  all  the  surrounding  landscape 
by  no  other  associations  than  those  which  can  be  connected 
with  its  modern  castellated  gaol. 

While  these  conditions  of  Scottish  scenery  affected  me  very 
painfully,  it  being  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  had  been  in  any 
country  possessing  no  valuable  monuments  or  examples  of  art, 
they  also  forced  me  into  the  consideration  of  one  or  two  difficult 
questions  respecting  the  effect  of  art  on  the  human  mind  ; 
and  they  forced  these  questions  upon  me  eminently  for  this  rea- 
son, that  while  I  was  wandering  disconsolately  among  the  moors 
of  the  Grampians,  where  there  was  no  art  to  be  found,  news 
of  peculiar  interest  was  every  day  arriving  from  a  country 
where  there  was  a  great  deal  of  art,  and  art  of  a  delicate  kind, 
to  be  found.  Among  the  models  set  before  you  in  this  insti- 
tution, and  in  the  others  established  throughout  the  kingdom 
far  the  teaching  of  design,  there  are,  I  suppose,  none  in  their 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


11 


kind  more  admirable  than  the  decorated  works  of  India.  They 
are,  indeed,  in  all  materials  capable  of  colour,  wool,  marble, 
or  metal,  almost  inimitable  in,  their  delicate  application  of 
divided  hue,  and  fine  arrangement  of  fantastic  line.  Nor  is 
this  power  of  theirs  exerted  by  the  people  rarely,  or  without 
enjoyment ;  the  love  of  subtle  design  seems  universal  in  the 
race,  and  is  developed  in  every  implement  that  they  shape, 
and  every  building  that  they  raise  ;  it  attaches  itself  with  the 
same  intensity,  and  with  the  same  success,  to  the  service  of 
superstition,  of  pleasure  or  of  cruelty  ;  and  enriches  alike,  with 
one  profusion  of  enchanted  iridescence,  the  dome  of  the  pa- 
goda, the  fringe  of  the  girdle,  and  the  edge  of  the  sword. 

So  then  you  have,  in  these  two  great  populations,  Indian 
and  Highland — in  the  races  of  the  jungle  and  of  the  moor — 
two  national  capacities  distinctly  and  accurately  opposed.  On 
the  one  side  you  have  a  race  rejoicing  in  art,  and  eminently 
and  universally  endowed  with  the  gift  of  it ;  on  the  other  you 
have  a  people  careless  of  art,  and  apparently  incapable  of  it, 
their  utmost  effort  hitherto  reaching  no  farther  than  to  the 
variation  of  the  positions  of  the  bars  of  colour  in  square  cheq- 
uers. And  we  are  thus  urged  naturally  to  enquire  what  is  the 
effect  on  the  moral  character,  in  each  nation,  of  this  vast  dif- 
ference in  their  pursuits  and  apparent  capacities?  and  whether 
those  rude  chequers  of  the  tartan,  or  the  exquisitely  fancied 
involutions  of  the  Cashmere,  fold  habitually  over  the  noblest 
hearts  ?  We  have  had  our  answer.  Since  the  race  of  man 
began  its  course  of  sin  on  this  earth,  nothing  has  ever  been 
done  by  it  so  significative  of  all  bestial,  and  lower  than  bestial 
degradation,  as  the  acts  the  Indian  race  in  the  year  that  has 
just  passed  by.  Cruelty  as  fierce  may  indeed  have  been 
wreaked,  and  brutality  as  abominable  been  practised  before, 
but  never  under  like  circumstances  ;  rage  of  prolonged  war, 
and  resentment  of  prolonged  oppression,  have  made  men  as 
cruel  before  now  ;  and  gradual  decline  into  barbarism,  where 
no  examples  of  decency  or  civilization  existed  around  them, 
has  sunk,  before  now,  isolated  populations  to  the  lowest  level 
of  possible  humanity.  But  cruelty  stretched  to  its  fiercest 
against  the  gentle  and  unoffending,  and  corruption  festered 


12 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


to  its  loathsomest  in  the  midst  of  the  witnessing  presence  of 
a  disciplined  civilization, — these  we  could  not  have  known  to 
be  within  the  practicable  compass  of  human  guilt,  but  for  the 
acts  of  the  Indian  mutineer.  And,  as  thus,  on  the  one  hand, 
you  have  an  extreme  energy  of  baseness  displayed  by  these 
lovers  of  art ;  on  the  other, — as  if  to  put  the  question  into  the 
narrowest  compass — you  have  had  an  extreme  energy  of  virtue 
displayed  by  the  despisers  of  art.  Among  all  the  soldiers  to 
whom  you  owe  your  victories  in  the  Crimea,  and  your  aveng- 
ing in  the  Indies,  to  none  are  you  bound  by  closer  bonds  of 
gratitude  than  to  the  men  who  have  been  born  and  bred  among 
those  desolate  Highland  moors.  And  thus  you  have  the  dif- 
ferences in  capacity  and  circumstance  between  the  two  nations, 
and  the  differences  in  result  on  the  moral  habits  of  two  na- 
tions, put  into  the  most  significant — the  most  palpable — the 
most  brief  opposition.  Out  of  the  peat  cottage  come  faith, 
courage,  self-sacrifice,  purity,  and  piety,  and  whatever  else  is 
fruitful  in  the  work  of  Heaven  ;  out  of  the  ivory  palace  come 
treachery,  cruelty,  cowardice,  idolatry,  bestiality, — whatever 
else  is  fruitful  in  the  work  of  Hell. 

But  the  difficulty  does  not  close  here.  From  one  instance, 
of  however  great  apparent  force,  it  would  be  wholly  unfair  to 
gather  any  general  conclusion — wholly  illogical  to  assert 
that  because  we  had  once  found  love  of  art  connected  with 
moral  baseness,  the  love  of  art  must  be  the  general  root  of 
moral  baseness ;  and  equally  unfair  to  assert  that,  because 
we  had  once  found  neglect  of  art  coincident  with  noble- 
ness of  disposition,  neglect  of  art  must  be  always  the  source 
or  sign  of  that  nobleness.  But  if  we  pass  from  the  Indian 
peninsula  into  other  countries  of  the  globe  ;  and  from  our 
own  recent  experience,  to  the  records  of  history,  we  shall  still 
find  one  great  fact  fronting  us,  in  stern  universality— namely, 
the  apparent  connection  of  great  success  in  art  with  subse- 
quent national  degradation.  You  find,  in  the  first  place,  that 
the  nations  which  possessed  a  refined  art  were  always  subdued 
by  those  who  possessed  none :  you  find  the  Lydian  subdued 
by  the  Mede  ;  the  Athenian  by  the  Spartan  ;  the  Greek  by  the 
Roman  ;  the  Roman  by  the  Goth  ;  the  Burgundian  by  the 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART 


13 


Switzer  :  but  you  find,  beyond  this — that  even  where  no  attack 
by  any  external  power  has  accelerated  the  catastrophe  of  the 
state,  the  period  in  which  any  given  people  reach  their  high- 
est power  in  art  is  precisely  that  in  which  they  appear  to  sign 
the  warrant  of  their  own  ruin  ;  and  that,  from  the  moment  in 
which  a  perfect  statue  appears  in  Florence,  a  perfect  picture 
in  Venice,  or  a  perfect  fresco  in  Kome,  from  that  hour  forward, 
probity,  industry,  and  courage  seem  to  be  exiled  from  their 
walls,  and  they  perish  in  a  sculpturesque  paralysis,  or  a  many- 
coloured  corruption. 

But  even  this  is  not  all.  As  art  seems  thus,  in  its  delicate 
form,  to  be  one  of  the  chief  promoters  of  indolence  and  sen- 
suality,— so,  I  need  hardly  remind  you,  it  hitherto  has  ap- 
peared only  in  energetic  manifestation  when  it  was  in  the 
service  of  superstition.  The  four  greatest  manifestations  of 
human  intellect  which  founded  the  four  principal  kingdoms 
of  art,  Egyptian,  Babylonian,  Greek,  and  Italian,  were  devel- 
oped by  the  strong  excitement  of  active  superstition  in  the 
worship  of  Osiris,  Bel  us,  Minerva,  and  the  Queen  of  Heaven* 
Therefore,  to  speak  briefly,  it  may  appear  very  difficult  to 
show  that  art  has  ever  yet  existed  in  a  consistent  and  thor- 
oughly energetic  school,  unless  it  was  engaged  in  the  propa- 
gation of  falsehood,  or  the  encouragement  of  vice. 

And  finally,  while  art  has  thus  shown  itself  always  active  in 
the  service  of  luxury  and  idolatry,  it  has  also  been  strongly  di- 
rected to  the  exaltation  of  cruelty.  A  nation  which  lives  a 
pastoral  and  innocent  life  never  decorates  the  shepherd's  staff 
or  the  plough-handle,  but  faces  who  live  by  depredation  and 
slaughter  nearly  always  bestow  exquisite  ornaments  on  the 
quiver,  the  helmet,  and  the  spear. 

Does  it  not  seem  to  you,  then,  on  all  these  three  counts, 
more  than  questionable  whether  we  are  assembled  here  in 
Kensington  Museum  to  any 'good  purpose?  Might  we  not 
justly  be  looked  upon  with  suspicion  and  fear,  rather  than 
with  sympathy,  by  the  innocent  and  unartistical  public  ?  Are 
we  even  sure  of  ourselves  ?  Do  we  know  what  we  are  about  ? 
Are  we  met  here  as  honest  people?  or  are  we  not  rather  so 
many  Catilines  assembled  to  devise  the  hasty  degradation  of 


14 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


our  country,  or,  like  a  conclave  of  midnight  witches,  to  sum« 
mon  and  send  forth,  on  new  and  unexpected  missions,  the 
demons  of  luxury,  cruelty,  and  superstition  ? 

I  trust,  upon  the  whole,  that  it  is  not  so  :  I  am  sure  that 
Mr.  Redgrave  and  Mr.  Cole  do  not  at  all  include  results  of 
this  kind  in  their  conception  of  the  ultimate  objects  of  the  in- 
stitution which  owes  so  much  to  their  strenuous  and  well 
directed  exertions.  And  I  have  put  this  painful  question  be- 
fore you,  only  that  we  may  face  it  thoroughly,  and,  as  I  hope, 
out-face  it.  If  you  will  give  it  a  little  sincere  attention  this 
evening,  I  trust  we  may  find  sufficiently  good  reasons  for  our 
work,  and  proceed  to  it  hereafter,  as  all  good  workmen  should 
do,  with  clear  heads,  and  calm  consciences. 

To  return,  then,  to  the  first  point  of  difficulty,  the  relations 
between  art  and  mental  disposition  in  India  and  Scotland. 
It  is  quite  true  that  the  art  of  India  is  delicate  and  refined. 
But  it  has  one  curious  character  distinguishing  it  from  all 
other  art  of  equal  merit  in  design — it  never  represents  a  natu- 
ral fact.  It  either  forms  its  compositions  out  of  meaningless 
fragments  of  colour  and  Sowings  of  line  ;  or  if  it  represents 
any  living  creature,  it  represents  that  creature  under  some 
distorted  and  monstrous  form.  To  all  the  facts  and  forms  of 
nature  it  wilfully  and  resolutely  opposes  itself  ;  it  will  not 
draw  a  man,  but  an  eight-armed  monster  ;  it  will  not  draw  a 
flower,  but  only  a  spiral  or  a  zigzag. 

It  thus  indicates  that  the  people  who  practise  it  are  cut  off 
from  all  possible  sources  of  healthy  knowledge  or  natural 
delight ;  that  they  have  wilfully  sealed  up  and  put  aside  the 
entire  volume  of  the  world,  and  have  got  nothing  to  read, 
nothing  to  dwell  upon,  but  that  imagination  of  the  thoughts 
of  their  hearts,  of  which  wTe  are  told  that  "  it  is  only  evil  con- 
tinually." Over  the  whole  spectacle  of  creation  they  have 
thrown  a  veil  in  wrhich  there  is  no  rent.  For  them  no  star 
peeps  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark — for  them  neither  their 
heaven  shines  nor  their  mountains  rise — for  them  the  flowers 
do  not  blossom — for  them  the  creatures  of  field  and  forest  do  not 
live.  They  lie  bound  in  the  dungeon  of  their  own  corruption, 
encompassed  only  by  doleful  phantoms,  or  by  spectral  vacancy. 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


15 


Need  I  remind  you  what  an  exac^j  reverse  of  this  condition 
of  mind,  as  respects  the  observance  of  nature,  is  presented  by 
the  people  whom  we  have  just  been  led  to  contemplate  in  con- 
trast with  the  Indian  race  ?  You  will  find  upon  reflection,  that 
all  the  highest  points  of  the  Scottish  character  are  connected 
with  impressions  derived  straight  from  the  natural  scenery 
of  their  country.  No  nation  has  ever  before  shown,  in  the 
general  tone  of  its  language — in  the  general  current  of  its 
literature— so  constant  a  habit  of  hallowing  its  passions  and 
confirming  its  principles  by  direct  association  with  the  charm, 
or  power,  of  nature.  The  writings  of  Scott  and  Burns — and 
yet  more,  of  the  far  greater  poets  than  Burns  who  gave  Scot- 
land her  traditional  ballads, — furnish  you  in  every  stanza — 
almost  in  every  line — with  examples  of  this  association  of 
natural  scenery  with  the  passions ;  *  but  an  instance  of  its 
farther  connection  with  moral  principle  struck  me  forcibly 
just  at  the  time  when  I  was  most  lamenting  the  absence  of  art 
among  the  people.  In  one  of  the  loneliest  districts  of  Scot- 
land, where  the  peat  cottages  are  darkest,  just  at  the  western 
foot  of  that  great  mass  of  the  Grampians  which  encircles  the 
sources  of  the  Spey  and  the  Dee,  the  main  road  which  trav- 
erses the  chain  winds  round  the  foot  of  a  broken  rock  called 
Crag,  or  Craig  Ellachie.  There  is  nothing  remarkable  in 
either  its  height  or  form  ;  it  is  darkened  with  a  few  scattered 
pines,  and  touched  along  its  summit  with  a  flush  of  heather  ; 
but  it  constitutes  a  kind  of  headland,  or  leading  promontory^ 
in  the  group  of  hills  to  which  it  belongs — a  sort  of  initial  let- 

*  The  great  poets  of  Scotland,  like  the  great  poets  of  all  other  coun- 
tries, never  write  dissolutely,  either  in  matter  or  method  ;  but  with 
stern  and  measured  meaning  in  every  syllable.  Here's  a  bit  of  first-rate 
work  for  example : 

"  Tweed  said  to  Till, 
1  What  gars  ye  rin  sae  still  ?  * 

Till  said  to  Tweed, 
1  Though  ye  rin  wi'  speed, 

And  I  rin  slaw, 

Whar  ye  droon  ae  man, 

I  droon  twa.' " 


16 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


ter  of  the  mountains ;  and  thus  stands  in  the  mind  of  the  ir> 
habitants  of  the  district,  the  Clan  Grant,  for  a  type  of  the?* 
country,  and  of  the  influence  of  that  country  upon  themselves. 
Their  sense  of  this  is  beautifully  indicated  in  the  war-cry  of 
the  clan,  "  Stand  fast,  Craig  Ellachie."  You  may  think  long 
over  those  few  words  without  exhausting  the  deep  wells  of 
feeling  and  thought  contained  in  them — the  love  of  the 
native  land,  the  assurance  of  their  faithfulness  to  it ;  the  sub- 
dued and  gentle  assertion  of  indomitable  courage — I  may 
need  to  be  told  to  stand,  but,  if  I  do,  Craig  Ellachie  does. 
You  could  not  but  have  felt,  had  you  passed  beneath  it  at  the 
time  when  so  many  of  England's  dearest  children  were  being 
defended  by  the  strength  of  heart  of  men  born  at  its  foot, 
how  often  among  the  delicate  Indian  palaces,  whose  marble 
was  pallid  with  horror,  and  whose  vermilion  was  darkened 
with  blood,  the  remembrance  of  its  rough  grey  rocks  and 
purple  heaths  must  have  risen  before  the  sight  of  the  High- 
land soldier  ;  how  often  the  hailing  of  the  shot  and  the  shriek 
of  battle  would  pass  away  from  his  hearing,  and  leave  only 
the  whisper  of  the  old  pine  branches — 4 '  Stand  fast,  Craig 
Ellachie ! " 

You  have,  in  these  two  nations,  seen  in  direct  opposition 
the  effects  on  moral  sentiment  of  art  without  nature,  and  of 
nature  without  art.  And  you  see  enough  to  justify  you  in 
suspecting — while,  if  you  choose  to  investigate  the  subject 
more  deeply  and  with  other  examples,  you  will  find  enough 
to  justify  you  in  concluding — that  art,  followed  as  such,  and 
for  its  own  sake,  irrespective  of  the  interpretation  of  nature 
by  it,  is  destructive  of  whatever  is  best  and  noblest  in  human- 
ity ;  but  that  nature,  however  simply  observed,  or  imperfectly 
known,  is,  in  the  degree  of  the  affection  felt  for  it,  protective 
and  helpful  to  all  that  is  noblest  in  humanity. 

You  might  then  conclude  farther,  that  art,  so  far  as  it  was 
devoted  to  the  record  or  the  interpretation  of  nature,  would 
be  helpful  and  ennobling  also. 

And  you  wrould  conclude  this  with  perfect  truth.  Let  me 
repeat  the  assertion  distinctly  and  solemnly,  as  the  first  that 
I  am  permitted  to  make  in  this  building,  devoted  in  a  wav  so 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


17 


new  and  so  admirable  to  the  service  of  the  art-students  ot 
England — Wherever  art  is  practised  for  its  own  sake,  and  the 
delight  of  the  workman  is  in  what  he  does  and  produces,  in- 
stead of  what  he  interprets  or  exhibits, — there  art  has  an  influ- 
ence of  the  most  fatal  kind  on  brain  and  heart,  and  it  issues, 
if  long  so  pursued,  in  the  destruction  both  of  intellectual  power 
and  moral  principal ;  whereas  art,  devoted  humbly  and  self- 
forgetfully  to  the  clear  statement  and  record  of  the  facts  of 
the  universe,  is  always  helpful  and  beneficent  to  mankind,  full 
of  comfort,  strength,  and  salvation. 

Now,  when  you  were  once  well  assured  of  this,  you  might 
logically  infer  another  thing,  namely,  that  when  Art  was  oc- 
cupied in  the  function  in  which  she  was  serviceable,  she  would 
herself  be  strengthened  by  the  service,  and  when  she  was  do- 
ing what  Providence  without  doubt  intended  her  to  do,  she 
would  gain  in  vitality  and  dignity  just  as  she  advanced  in  use- 
fulness. On  the  other  hand,  you  might  gather,  that  when 
her  agency  wTas  distorted  to  the  deception  or  degradation  of 
mankind,  she  would  herself  be  equally  misled  and  degraded 
— that  she  would  be  checked  in  advance,  or  precipitated  in 
decline. 

And  this  is  the  truth  also ;  and  holding  this  clue  you  will 
easily  and  justly  interpret  the  phenomena  of  history.  So  long- 
as  Art  is  steady  in  the  contemplation  and  exhibition  of  natural 
facts,  so  long  she  herself  lives  and  grows  ;  and  in  her  own  life 
and  growth  partly  implies,  partly  secures,  that  of  the  nation 
in  the  midst  of  which  she  is  practised.  But  a  time  has  always 
hitherto  come,  in  which,  having  thus  reached  a  singular  per- 
fection, she  begins  to  contemplate  that  perfection,  and  to  im- 
itate it,  and  deduce  rules  and  forms  from  it ;  and  thus  to  for- 
get her  duty  and  ministry  as  the  interpreter  and  discoverer  of 
Truth.  And  in  the  very  instant  when  this  diversion  of  her 
purpose  and  forgetfulness  of  her  function  take  place — forget- 
fulness  generally  coincident  with  her  apparent  perfection — in 
that  instant,  I  say,  begins  her  actual  catastrophe  ;  and  by  her 
own  fall — so  far  as  she  has  influence — she  accelerates  the  ruin 
of  the  nation  by  which  she  is  practised. 

The  study,  however,  of  the  effect  of  art  on  the  mind  of  na- 


18 


THE  TWO  PATES. 


tions  is  one  rather  for  the  historian  than  for  us  ;  at  all  events 
it  is  one  for  the  discussion  of  which  we  have  no  more  time 
this  evening.  But  I  will  ask  your  patience  with  me  while  I 
try  to  illustrate,  in  some  further  particulars,  the  dependence 
of  the  healthy  state  and  power  of  art  itself  upon  the  exercise 
of  its  appointed  function  in  the  interpretation  of  fact. 

You  observe  that  I  always  say  interpretation,  never  imitation. 
My  reason  for  so  doing  is,  first,  that  good  art  rarely  imitates  ; 
it  usually  only  describes  or  explains.  But  my  second  and 
chief  reason  is  that  good  art  always  consists  of  two  things  : 
First,  the  observation  of  fact ;  secondly,  the  manifesting  of 
human  design  and  authority  in  the  way  that  fact  is  told. 
Great  and  good  art  must  unite  the  two  ;  it  cannot  exist  for  a 
moment  but  in  their  unity  ;  it  consists  of  the  two  as  essen- 
tially as  water  consists  of  oxygen  and  hydrogen,  or  marble  of 
lime  and  carbonic  acid. 

Let  us  inquire  a  little  into  the  nature  of  each  of  the  ele^ 
ments.  The  first  element,  we  say,  is  the  love  of  Nature,  lead- 
ing to  the  effort  to  observe  and  report  her  truly.  And  this  is 
the  first  and  leading  element.  Review  for  yourselves  the  history 
of  art,  and  you  will  find  this  to  be  a  manifest  certainty,  that 
no  great  school  ever  yet  existed  which  had  not  for  primal  aim  the 
representation  of  some  natural  fact  as  truly  as  possible.  There 
have  only  yet  appeared  in  the  world  three  schools  of  perfect 
art — schools,  that  is  to  say,  that  did  their  work  as  well  as  it 
seems  possible  to  do  it.  These  are  the  Athenian,*  Florentine, 
and  Venetian.  The  Athenian  proposed  to  itself  the  perfect 
representation  of  the  form  of  the  human  body.  It  strove  to 
do  that  as  well  as  it  could  ;  it  did  that  as  well  as  it  can  be 
done  ;  and  all  its  greatness  was  founded  upon  and  involved  in 
that  single  and  honest  effort.  The  Florentine  school  proposed 
to  itself  the  perfect  expression  of  human  emotion — the  show- 
ing of  the  effects  of  passion  in  the  human  face  and  gesture. 
I  call  this  the  Florentine  school,  because,  whether  you  take 
Raphael  for  the  culminating  master  of  expressional  art  in 
Italy,  or  Leonardo,  or  Michael  Angelo,  you  will  find  that  the 

*  See  below,  the  farther  notice  of  the  real  spirit  of  Greek  work,  in  the 
address  at  Bradford. 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


19 


whole  energy  of  the  national  effort  which  produced  those  mas- 
ters had  its  root  in  Florence  ;  not  at  Urbino  or  Milan.  I  say. 
then,  this  Florentine  or  leading  Italian  school  proposed  to 
itself  human  expression  for  its  aim  in  natural  truth  ;  it  strove 
to  do  that  as  well  as  it  could — did  it  as  well  as  it  can  be  done 
— and  all  its  greatness  is  rooted  in  that  single  and  honest  ef- 
fort. Thirdly,  the  Venetian  school  propose  the  representation 
of  the  effect  of  colour  and  shade  on  all  things ;  chiefly  on  the 
human  form.  It  tried  to  do  that  as  well  as  it  could — did  it  as 
well  as  it  can  be  done— and  all  its  greatness  is  founded  on  that 
single  and  honest  effort. 

Pray,  do  not  leave  this  room  without  a  perfectly  clear  hold- 
ing of  these  three  ideas.  You  may  try  them,  and  toss  them 
about  afterwards,  as  much  as  you  like,  to  see  if  they'll  bear 
shaking  ;  but  do  let  me  put  them  well  and  plainly  into  your 
possession.  Attach  them  to  three  works  of  art  which  you  all 
have  either  seen  or  continually  heard  of.  There's  the  (so- 
called)  "  Theseus  "  of  the  Elgin  marbles.  That  represents 
the  whole  end  and  aim  of  the  Athenian  school — the  natural 
form  of  the  human  body.  All  their  conventional  architecture 
— their  graceful  shaping  and  painting  of  pottery — whatsoever 
other  art  they  practised — was  dependent  for  its  greatness  on 
this  sheet-anchor  of  central  aim  :  true  shape  of  living  man. 
Then  take,  for  your  type  of  the  Italian  school,  Raphael's  "Dis- 
puta  del  Sacramento  ; "  that  will  be  an  accepted  type  by  every- 
body, and  will  involve  no  possibly  questionable  points :  the 
Germans  will  admit  it ;  the  English  academicians  will  admit 
it ;  and  the  English  purists  and  pre-Raphaelites  will  admit  it. 
Well,  there  you  have  the  truth  of  human  expression  proposed 
as  an  aim.  That  is  the  way  people  look  when  they  feel  this  or 
that — when  they  have  this  or  that  other  mental  character  :  are 
they  devotional,  thoughtful,  affectionate,  indignant,  or  in- 
spired? are  they  prophets,  saints,  priests,  or  kings?  then- 
whatsoever  is  truly  thoughtful,  affectionate,  prophetic,  priestly, 
kingly — that  the  Florentine  school  tried  to  discern,  and  show  : 
that  they  have  discerned  and  shown  ;  and  all  their  greatness 
is  first  fastened  in  their  aim  at  this  central  truth — the  open 
expression  of  the  living  human  soul. 


20 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Lastly,  take  Veronese's  "  Marriage  in  Cana  "  in  the  Louvre. 
There  you  have  the  most  perfect  representation  possible  of 
colour,  and  light,  and  shade,  as  they  affect  the  external  as- 
pect of  the  human  form,  and  its  immediate  accessories,  archi- 
tecture, furniture,  and  dress.  This  external  aspect  of  noblest 
nature  was  the  first  aim  of  the  Venetians,  and  all  their  great- 
ness depended  on  their  resolution  to  achieve,  and  their 
patience  in  achieving  it. 

Here,  then,  are  the  three  greatest  schools  of  the  former 
world  exemplified  for  you  in  three  well-known  works.  The 
Phidian  u  Theseus "  represents  the  Greek  school  pursuing 
truth  of  form;  the  "Disputa"  of  Raphael,  the  Florentine 
school  pursuing  truth  of  mental  expression  ;  the  "  Marriage 
in  Cana,"  the  Venetian  school  pursuing  truth  of  colour  and 
light.  But  do  not  suppose  that  the  law  which  I  am  stating  to 
you — the  great  law  of  art-life — can  only  be  seen  in  these,  the 
most  powerful  of  all  art  schools.  It  is  just  as  manifest  in  each 
and  every  school  that  ever  has  had  life  in  it  at  all.  Whereso- 
ever the  search  after  truth  begins,  there  life  begins  ;  whereso- 
ever that  search  ceases,  there  life  ceases.  As  long  as  a  school 
of  art  holds  any  chain  of  natural  facts,  trying  to  discover  more 
of  them  and  express  them  better  daily,  it  may  play  hither  and 
thither  as  it  likes  on  this  side  of  the  chain  or  that ;  it  may  de- 
design  grotesques  and  conventionalisms,  build  the  simplest 
buildings,  serve  the  most  practical  utilities,  yet  all  it  does  will 
be  gloriously  designed  and  gloriously  done ;  but  let  it  once 
quit  hold  of  the  chain  of  natural  fact,  cease  to  pursue  that 
as  the  clue  to  its  work  ;  let  it  propose  to  itself  any  other  end 
than  preaching  this  living  word,  and  think  first  of  showing  its 
own  skill  or  its  own  fancy,  and  from  that  hour  its  fall  is  pre- 
cipitate— its  destruction  sure  ;  nothing  that  it  does  or  designs 
will  ever  have  life  or  loveliness  in  it  more  ;  its  hour  has  come, 
and  there  is  no  work,  nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom 
in  the  grave  whither  it  goeth. 

Let  us  take  for  example  that  school  of  art  over  which  many 
of  you  would  perhaps  think  this  law  had  but  little  power— 
the  school  of  Gothic  architecture.  Many  of  us  may  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  thinking  of  that  school  rather  as  of  one  of 


TOWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART 


21 


forms  than  of  facts — a  school  of  pinnacles,  and  buttresses, 
and  conventional  mouldings,  and  disguise  of  nature  by  mon- 
strous imaginings — not  a  school  of  truth  at  all.  I  think  I 
shall  be  able,  even  in  the  little  time  we  have  to-night,  to  show 
that  this  is  not  so  ;  and  that  our  great  law  holds  just  as  good 
at  Amiens  and  Salisbury,  as  it  does  at  Athens  and  Florence. 

I  will  go  back  then  first  to  the  very  beginnings  of  Gothic 
art,  and  before  you,  the  students  of  Kensington,  as  an  impan- 
elled jury,  I  will  bring  two  examples  of  the  barbarism  out  of 
which  Gothic  art  emerges,  approximately  contemporary  in 
date  and  parallel  in  executive  skill ;  but,  the  one,  a  barbarism 
that  did  not  get  on,  and  could  not  get  on  ;  the  other,  a  bar- 
barism that  could  get  on,  and  did  get  on  ;  and  you,  the  im- 
panelled jury,  shall  judge  what  is  the  essential  difference  be- 
tween the  two  barbarisms,  and  decide  for  yourselves  what 
is  the  seed  of  life  in  the  one,  and  the  sign  of  death  in  the 
other. 

The  first, — that  which  has  in  it  the  sign  of  death, — fur- 
nishes us  at  the  same  time  with  an  illustration  far  too  inter- 
esting to  be  passed  by,  of  certain  principles  much  depended 
on  by  our  common  modern  designers.  Taking  up  one  of  our 
architectural  publications  the  other  day,  and  opening  it  at 
random,  I  chanced  upon  this  piece  of  information,  put  in 
rather  curious  English  ;  but  you  shall  have  it  as  it  stands— 

"  Aristotle  asserts,  that  the  greatest  species  of  the  beautiful 
are  Order,  Symmetry,  and  the  Definite." 

I  should  tell  you,  however,  that  this  statement  is  not  given 
as  authoritative  ;  it  is  one  example  of  various  Architectural 
teachings,  given  in  a  report  in  the  Building  Chronicle  for  May, 
1857,  of  a  lecture  on  Proportion  ;  in  which  the  only  thing  the 
lecturer  appears  to  have  proved  was  that, — 

"  The  system  of  dividing  the  diameter  of  the  shaft  of  a  col- 
umn into  parts  for  copying  the  ancient  architectural  remains 
of  Greece  and  Rome,  adopted  by  architects  from  Vitruvius 
(circa  b.c.  25)  to  the  present  period,  as  a  method  for  produc- 
ing ancient  architecture,  is  entirely  useless,  for  the  several  parts 
of  Grecian  architecture  cannot  be  reduced  or  subdivided  by 
this  system  ;  neither  does  it  apply  to  the  architecture  of  Roma 


22  THE  TWO  PATHS. 

Still,  as  far  as  I  can  make  it  out,  the  lecture  appears  ta 
have  been  one  of  those  of  which  you  will  just  at  present  hea* 
so  many,  the  protests  of  architects  who  have  no  knowledge 
of  sculpture — or  of  any  other  mode  of  expressing  natural 
beauty — against  natural  beauty  ;  and  their  endeavour  to  sub- 
stitute mathematical  proportions  for  the  knowledge  of  life 
they  do  not  possess,  and  the  representation  of  life  of  which 
they  are  incapable.    Now,  this  substitution  of  obedience  to 

mathematical  law  for  sympathy  with 
observed  life,  is  the  first  characteris- 
tic of  the  hopeless  work  of  all  ages  ; 
as  such,  you  will  find  it  eminently 
manifested  in  the  specimen  I  have  to 
give  you  of  the  hopeless  Gothic  bar- 
barism ;  the  barbarism  from  which 
nothing  could  emerge — for  which  no 
future  was  possible  but  extinction. 
The  Aristotelian  principles  of  the 
Beautiful  are,  you  remember,  Order, 
Symmetry,  and  the  Definite.  Here 
you  have  the  three,  in  perfection,  applied  to  the  ideal  of  an 
angel,  in  a  psalter  of  the  eighth  century,  existing  in  the  li- 
brary of  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge.* 

Now,  you  see  the  characteristics  of  this  utterly  dead  school 
are,  first  the  wilful  closing  of  its  eyes  to  natural  facts ; — for, 
however  ignorant  a  person  may  be,  he  need  only  look  at  a 
human  being  to  see  that  it  has  a  mouth  as  well  as  eyes  ;  and 
secondly,  the  endeavour  to  adorn  or  idealize  natural  fact  ac- 
cording to  its  own  notions  :  it  puts  red  spots  in  the  middle 
of  the  hands,  and  sharpens  the  thumbs,  thinking  to  improve 
them.  Here  you  have  the  most  pure  type  possible  of  the 
principles  of  idealism  in  all  ages  :  whenever  people  don't  look 
at  Nature,  they  always  think  they  can  improve  her.  You  will 
also  admire,  doubtless,  the  exquisite  result  of  the  application 
of  our  great  modern  architectural  principle  of  beauty — Sym- 
metry, or  equal  balance  of  part  by  part ;  you  see  even  the  eyes 

*  I  copy  this  woodcut  from  West  wood's  "  Palseographia  Sacra." 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


23 


are  made  symmetrical — entirely  round,  instead  of  irregular, 
oval ;  and  the  iris  is  set  properly  in  the  middle,  instead  of — 
as  nature  has  absurdly  put  it — rather  under  the  upper  lid. 
You  will  also  observe  the  "principle  of  the  pyramid"  in  the 
general  arrangement  of  the  figure,  and  the  value  of  "  series  " 
in  the  placing  of  dots. 

From  this  dead  barbarism  we  pass  to  living  barbarism — to 
work  done  by  hands  quite  as  rude,  if  not  ruder,  and  by  minds 
as  uninformed  ;  and  yet  work  which  in  every  line  of  it  is 
prophetic  of  power,  and  has  in  it  the  sure  dawn  of  day.  You 
have  often  heard  it  said  that  Giotto  wTas  the  founder  of  art  in 
Italy.  He  was  not :  neither  he,  nor  Giunta  Pisano,  nor  Nic- 
colo  Pisano.  They  all  laid  strong  hands  to  the  work,  and 
brought  it  first  into  aspect  above  ground  ;  but  the  foundation 
had  been  laid  for  them  by  the  builders  of  the  Lombardic 
churches  in  the  valleys  of  the  Adda  and  the  Arno.  It  is  in 
the  sculpture  of  the  round  arched  churches  of  North  Italy, 
bearing  disputable  dates,  ranging  from  the  eighth  to  the  twelfth 
century,  that  you  will  find  the  lowest  struck  roots  of  the  art 
of  Titian  and  Raphael.*  I  go,  therefore,  to  the  church  which 
is  certainly  the  earliest  of  these,  St.  Ambrogio,  of  Milan,  said 
still  to  retain  some  portions  of  the  actual  structure  from  which 
St.  Ambrose  excluded  Theodosius,  and  at  all  events  furnishing 
the  most  archaic  examples  of  Lombardic  sculpture  in  North 
Italy.  I  do  not  venture  to  guess  their  date  ;  they  are  barba- 
rous enough  for  any  date. 

We  find  the  pulpit  of  this  church  covered  with  interlacing 
patterns,  closely  resembling  those  of  the  manuscript  at  Cam- 
bridge, but  among  them  is  figure  sculpture  of  a  very  differ- 
ent kind.  It  is  wrought  with  mere  incisions  in  the  stone,  of 
which  the  effect  may  be  tolerably  given  by  single  lines  in  a 
drawing.  Remember,  therefore,  for  a  moment — as  character- 
istic of  culminating  Italian  art — Michael  Angelo's  fresco  of 
the  "  Temptation  of  Eve,"  in  the  Sistine  chapel,  and  you  will 
be  more  interested  in  seeing  the  birth  of  Italian  art,  illus- 

*  I  have  said  elsewhere,  "  the  root  of  all  art  is  struck  in  the  thirteenth 
century."  This  is  quite  true  :  but  of  course  some  of  the  smallest  fibres 
run  lower,  as  in  this  instance. 


24 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


trated  by  the  same  subject,  from  St.  Ambrogio,  of  Milan,  the 
"  Serpent  beguiling  Eve."  * 

Yet,  in  that  sketch,  rude  and  ludicrous  as  it  is,  you  have 
the  elements  of  life  in  their  first  form.  The  people  who  could 
do  that  were  sure  to  get  on.  For,  observe,  the  workman's 
whole  aim  is  straight  at  the  facts,  as  well  as  he  can  get  them  ; 
and  not  merely  at  the  facts,  but  at  the  very  heart  of  the  facts. 
A  common  workman  might  have  looked  at  nature  for  his  ser- 
pent, but  he  would  have  thought  only  of  its  scales.  But  this 
fellow  does  not  want  scales,  nor  coils  ;  he  can  do  without 


them  ;  he  wants  the  serpent's  heart — malice  and  insinuation ; 
— and  he  has  actually  got  them  to  some  extent.  So  also  a 
common  workman,  even  in  this  barbarous  stage  of  art,  might 
have  carved  Eve's  arms  and  body  a  good  deal  better  ;  but  this 
man  does  not  care  about  arms  and  body,  if  he  can  only  get  at 
Eve's  mind — show  that  she  is  pleased  at  being  flattered,  and 
yet  in  a  state  of  uncomfortable  hesitation.  And  some  look  of 
listening,  of  complacency,  and  of  embarrassment  he  has  verily 
got : — note  the  eyes  slightly  askance,  the  lips  compressed,  and 
the  right  hand  nervously  grasping  the  left  arm  :  nothing  can 
be  declared  impossible  to  the  people  who  could  begin  thus— 
the  world  is  open  to  them,  and  all  that  is  in  it ;  while,  on  the 

*  This  cut  is  ruder  than  it  should  be  :  the  incisions  in  the  marble 
have  a  lighter  effect  than  these  rough  black  lines  ;  but  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  do  it  better. 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


25 


contrary,  nothing  is  possible  to  the  man  who  did  the  symmet- 
rical angel — the  world  is  keyless  to  him  ;  he  has  built  a  cell 
for  himself  in  which  he  must  abide,  barred  up  forever — there 
is  no  more  hope  for  him  than  for  a  sponge  or  a  madrepore. 

I  shall  not  trace  from  this  embryo  the  progress  of  Gothic 
art  in  Italy,  because  it  is  much  complicated  and  involved  with 
traditions  of  other  schools,  and  because  most  of  the  students 
will  be  less  familiar  with  its  results  than  with  their  own 
northern  buildings.  So,  these  two  designs  indicating  Death 
and  Life  in  the  beginnings  of  mediaeval  art,  we  will  take  an 
example  of  the  progress  of  that  art  from  our  northern  work. 
Now,  many  of  you,  doubtless,  have  been  interested  by  the 
mass,  grandeur,  and  gloom  of  Norman  architecture,  as  much 
as  by  Gothic  traceries  ;  and  when  you  hear  me  say  that  the 
root  of  all  good  work  lies  in  natural  facts,  you  doubtless  think 
instantly  of  your  round  arches,  with  their  rude  cushion  capi- 
tals, and  of  the  billet  or  zigzag  work  by  which  they  are  sur- 
rounded, and  you  cannot  see  what  the  knowledge  of  nature 
has  to  do  with  either  the  simple  plan  or  the  rude  mouldings. 
But  all  those  simple  conditions  of  Norman  art  are  merely  the 
expiring  of  it  towards  the  extreme  north.  Do  not  study  Nor- 
man architecture  in  Northumberland,  but  in  Normandy,  and 
then  you  will  find  that  it  is  just  a  peculiarly  manly,  and 
practically  useful,  form  of  the  whole  great  French  school  of 
rounded  architecture.  And  where  has  that  French  school  its 
origin  ?  Wholly  in  the  rich  conditions  of  sculpture,  which, 
rising  first  out  of  imitations  of  the  Roman  bas-reliefs,  cov- 
ered all  the  facades  of  the  French  early  churches  with  one 
continuous  arabesque  of  floral  or  animal  life.  If  you  want  to 
study  round-arched  buildings,  do  not  go  to  Durham,  but  go 
to  Poictiers,  and  there  you  will  see  how  all  the  simple  deco- 
rations which  give  you  so  much  pleasure  even  in  their  isolated 
application  were  invented  by  persons  practised  in  carving 
men,  monsters,  v/ild  animals,  birds,  and  flowers,  in  overwhelm- 
ing redundance  ;  and  then  trace  this  architecture  forward  in 
central  France,  and  you  will  find  it  loses  nothing  of  its  rich- 
ness— it  only  gains  in  truth,  and  therefore  in  grace,  until  just 
at  the  moment  of  transition  into  the  pointed  style,  you  have 


26 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


the  consummate  type  of  the  sculpture  of  the  school  given  you 
in  the  west  front  of  the  Cathedral  of  Chartres.  From  that 
front  I  have  chosen  two  fragments  to  illustrate  it.* 

These  statues  have  been  long,  and  justly,  considered  as 
representative  of  the  highest  skill  of  the  twelfth  or  earliest 
part  of  the  thirteenth  century  in  France  ;  and  they  indeed 
possess  a  dignity  and  delicate  charm,  which  are  for  the  most 
part  wanting  in  later  works.  It  is  owing  partly  to  real  noble- 
ness of  feature,  but  chiefly  to  the  grace,  mingled  with  sever- 
ity, of  the  falling  lines  of  excessively  thin  drapery  ;  as  well  as 
to  a  most  studied  finish  in  composition,  every  part  of  the  or- 
namentation tenderly  harmonizing  with  the  rest.  So  far  as 
their  power  over  certain  tones  of  religious  mind  is  owing  to  a 
palpable  degree  of  non-naturalism  in  them,  I  do  not  praise  it 
— the  exaggerated  thinness  of  body  and  stiffness  of  attitude 
are  faults ;  but  they  are  noble  faults,  and  give  the  statues  a 
strange  look  of  forming  part  of  the  very  building  itself,  and 
sustaining  it — not  like  the  Greek  caryatid,  without  effort — 
nor  like  the  Renaissance  caryatid,  by  painful  or  impossible 
effort — but  as  if  all  that  was  silent  and  stern,  and  withdrawn 
apart,  and  stiffened  in  chill  of  heart  against  the  terror  of 
earth,  had  passed  into  a  shape  of  eternal  marble  ;  and  thus 
the  Ghost  had  given,  to  bear  up  the  pillars  of  the  church  on 
earth,  all  the  patient  and  expectant  nature  that  it  needed  no 
more  in  heaven.  This  is  the  transcendental  view  of  the  mean- 
ing of  those  sculptures.  I  do  not  dwell  upon  it.  What  I  do 
lean  upon  is  their  purely  naturalistic  and  vital  power.  They 
are  all  portraits — unknown,  most  of  them,  I  believe, — but 
palpably  and  unmistakeably  portraits,  if  not  taken  from  the 
actual  person  for  whom  the  statue  stands,  at  all  events  stud- 
ied from  some  living  person  whose  features  might  fairly  rep- 
resent those  of  the  king  or  saint  intended.    Several  of  them  I 

*  This  part  of  the  lecture  was  illustrated  by  two  drawings,  made  ad« 
mirably  by  Mr.  J.  T.  Laing,  with  the  help  of  photographs  from  statues 
at  Chartres.  The  drawings  may  be  seen  at  present  at  the  Kensington 
Museum  :  but  any  large  photograph  of  the  west  front  of  Chartres  will 
enable  the  reader  to  follow  what  is  stated  in  the  lecture,  as  far  as  is 
needful. 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART 


21 


suppose  to  be  authentic :  there  is  one  of  a  queen,  who  has 
evidently,  while  she  lived,  been  notable  for  her  bright  black 
eyes.  The  sculptor  has  cut  the  iris  deep  into  the  stone,  and 
her  dark  eyes  are  still  suggested  with  her  smile. 

There  is  another  thing  I  wish  you  to  notice  specially  in 
these  statues — the  way  in  which  the  floral  moulding  is  asso- 
ciated with  the  vertical  lines  of  the  figure.  You  have  thus 
the  utmost  complexity  and  richness  of  curvature  set  side  by 
side  with  the  pure  and  delicate  parallel  lines,  and  both  the 
characters  gain  in  interest  and  beauty  ;  but  there  is  deeper 
significance  in  the  thing  than  that  of  mere  effect  in  composi- 
tion ; — significance  not  intended  on  the  part  of  the  sculptor, 
but  all  the  more  valuable  because  unintentional.  I  mean  the 
close  association  of  the  beauty  of  lower  nature  in  animals  and 
flowers,  with  the  beauty  of  higher  nature  in  human  form. 
You  never  get  this  in  Greek  work.  Greek  statues  are  always 
isolated  ;  blank  fields  of  stone,  or  depths  of  shadow,  relieving 
the  form  of  the  statue,  as  the  world  of  lower  nature  which 
they  despised  retired  in  darkness  from  their  hearts.  Here, 
the  clothed  figure  seems  the  type  of  the  Christian  spirit — in 
many  respects  feebler  and  more  contracted — but  purer; 
clothed  in  its  white  robes  and  crown,  and  with  the  riches  of 
all  creation  at  its  side. 

The  next  step  in  the  change  will  be  set  before  you  in  a 
moment,  merely  by  comparing  this  statue  from  the  west  front 
of  Chartres  with  that  of  the  Madonna,  from  the  south  transept 
door  of  Amiens.* 

This  Madonna,  with  the  sculpture  round  her,  represents 
the  culminating  power  of  Gothic  art  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. Sculpture  has  been  gaining  continually  in  the  interval ; 
gaining,  simply  because  becoming  every  day  more  truthful, 
more  tender,  and  more  suggestive.  By  the  way,  the  old 
Douglas  motto,  ' '  Tender  and  true,"  may  wisely  be  taken  up 
again  by  all  of  us,  for  our  own,  in  art  no  less  than  in  other 
things.    Depend  upon  it,  the  first  universal  characteristic  of 

*  There  are  many  photographs  of  this  door  and  of  its  central  statue. 
Its  sculpture  in  the  tympanum  is  farther  described  in  the  Fourth  Leo 
ture. 


28 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


all  great  art  is  Tenderness,  as  the  second  is  Truth.  I  find 
this  more  and  more  every  day  :  an  infinitude  of  tenderness  is 
the  chief  gift  and  inheritance  of  all  the  truly  great  men.  It 
is  sure  to  involve  a  relative  intensity  of  disdain  towards  base 
things,  and  an  appearance  of  sternness  and  arrogance  in  the 
eyes  of  all  hard,  stupid,  and  vulgar  people — quite  terrific  to 
such,  if  they  are  capable  of  terror,  and  hateful  to  them,  if  they 
are  capable  of  nothing  higher  than  hatred.  Dante's  is  the 
great  type  of  this  class  of  mind.  I  say  the  first  inheritance  is 
Tenderness — the  second  Truth,  because  the  Tenderness  is  in 
the  make  of  the  creature,  the  Truth  in  his  acquired  habits 
and  knowledge  ;  besides,  the  love  comes  first  in  dignity  as 
well  as  in  time,  and  that  is  always  pure  and  complete :  the 
truth,  at  best,  imperfect. 

To  come  back  to  our  statue.  You  will  observe  that  the  ar- 
rangement of  this  sculpture  is  exactly  the  same  as  at  Chartres 
— severe  falling  drapery,  set  off  by  rich  floral  ornament  at  the 
side  ;  but  the  statue  is  now  completely  animated  :  it  is  no 
longer  fixed  as  an  upright  pillar,  but  bends  aside  out  of  its 
niche,  and  the  floral  ornament,  instead  of  being  a  conventional 
wreath,  is  of  exquisitely  arranged  hawthorn.  The  work,  how- 
ever, as  a  whole,  though  perfectly  characteristic  of  the  advance 
of  the  age  in  style  and  purpose,  is  in  some  subtler  qualities 
inferior  to  that  of  Chartres.  The  individual  sculptor,  though 
trained  in  a  more  advanced  school,  has  been  himself  a  man  of 
inferior  order  of  mind  compared  to  the  one  who  worked  at 
Chartres.  But  I  have  not  time  to  point  out  to  you  the  subtler 
characters  by  which  I  know  this. 

This  statue,  then,  marks  the  culminating  point  of  Gothic 
art,  because,  up  to  this  time,  the  eyes  of  its  designers  had 
been  steadily  fixed  on  natural  truth — they  had  been  advanc- 
ing from  flower  to  flower,  from  form  to  form,  from  face  to 
face, — gaining  perpetually  in  knowledge  and  veracity — there- 
fore, perpetually  in  power  and  in  grace.  But  at  this  point  a 
fatal  change  came  over  their  aim.  From  the  statue  they  now 
began  to  turn  the  attention  chiefly  to  the  niche  of  the  statue, 
and  from  the  floral  ornament  to  the  mouldings  that  enclosed 
the  floral  ornament.    The  first  result  of  this  was,  however, 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


29 


though  not  the  grandest,  yet  the  most  finished  of  northern 
genius.  You  have,  in  the  earlier  Gothic,  less  wonderful  con- 
struction, less  careful  masonry,  far  less  expression  of  harmony  of 
parts  in  the  balance  of  the  building.  Earlier  work  always  has 
more  or  less  of  the  character  of  a  good  solid  wall  with  irregular 
holes  in  it,  well  carved  wherever  there  is  room.  But  the  last 
phase  of  good  Gothic  has  no  room  to  spare  ;  it  rises  as  high  as  it 
can  on  narrowest  foundation,  stands  in  perfect  strength  with 
the  least  possible  substance  in  its  bars  ;  connects  niche  with 
niche,  and  line  with  line,  in  an  exquisite  harmony,  from  which 
no  stone  can  be  removed,  and  to  which  you  can  add  not  a  pin- 
nacle ;  and  yet  introduces  in  rich,  though  now  more  calculated 
profusion,  the  living  element  of  its  sculpture  :  sculpture  in 
the  quatrefoils — sculpture  in  the  brackets — sculpture  in  the 
gargoyles — sculpture  in  the  niches — sculpture  in  the  ridges 
and  hollows  of  its  mouldings, — not  a  shadow  without  meaning, 
and  not  a  light  without  life.*  But  with  this  very  perfection 
of  his  work  came  the  unhappy  pride  of  the  builder  in  what  he 
had  done.  As  long  as  he  had  been  merely  raising  clumsy 
walls  and  carving  them  like  a  child,  in  waywardness  of  fancy, 
his  delight  was  in  the  things  he  thought  of  as  he  carved  ;  but 
when  he  had  once  reached  this  pitch  of  constructive  science, 
he  began  to  think  only  how  cleverly  he  could  put  the  stones 
together.  The  question  was  not  now  with  him,  What  can  I 
represent  ?  but,  How  high  can  I  build — how  wonderfully  can 
I  hang  this  arch  in  air,  or  weave  this  tracery  across  the 
clouds?  And  the  catastrophe  was  instant  and  irrevocable. 
Architecture  became  in  France  a  mere  web  of  waving  lines, 
— in  England  a  mere  grating  of  perpendicular  ones.  Re- 
dundance was  substituted  for  invention,  and  geometry  for 
passion ;  tho  Gothic  art  became  a  mere  expression  of  wanton 
expenditure,  and  vulgar  mathematics  ;  and  was  swept  away, 
as  it  then  deserved  to  be  swept  away,  by  the  severer  pride, 

*  The  two  transepts  of  Rouen  Cathedral  illustrate  this  style.  There 
are  plenty  of  photographs  of  them.  I  take  this  opportunity  of  repeat- 
ing what  I  have  several  times  before  stated,  for  the  sake  of  travellers, 
that  St.  Ouen,  impressive  as  it  is,  is  entirely  inferior  to  the  transepts  of 
Rouen  Cathedral. 


30 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


and  purer  learning,  of  the  schools  founded  on  classical  tradi- 
tions. 

You  cannot  now  fail  to  see  how,  throughout  the  history  of 
this  wonderful  art — from  its  earliest  dawn  in  Lombardy  to  its 
last  catastrophe  in  France  and  England — sculpture,  founded 
on  love  of  nature,  was  the  talisman  of  its  existence  ;  wherever 
sculpture  was  practised,  architecture  arose — wherever  that 
was  neglected,  architecture  expired  ;  and,  believe  me,  all  you 
students  who  love  this  mediaeval  art,  there  is  no  hope  of  your 
ever  doing  any  good  with  it,  but  on  this  everlasting  principle. 
Your  patriotic  associations  with  it  are  of  no  use  ;  your  roman- 
tic associations  witli  it — either  of  chivalry  or  religion — are  of 
no  use  ;  they  are  worse  than  useless,  they  are  false.  Gothic 
is  not  an  art  for  knights  and  nobles  ;  it  is  an  art  for  the  peo- 
ple :  it  is  not  an  art  for  churches  or  sanctuaries  ;  it  is  an  art 
for  houses  and  homes  :  it  is  not  an  art  for  England  only,  but 
an  art  for  the  world  :  above  all,  it  is  not  an  art  of  form  or 
tradition  only,  but  an  art  of  vital  practice  and  perpetual  re- 
newal. And  whosoever  pleads  for  it  as  an  ancient  or  a  formal 
thing,  and  tries  to  teach  it  you  as  an  ecclesiastical  tradition 
or  a  geometrical  science,  knows  nothing  of  its  essence,  less 
than  nothing  of  its  power. 

Leave,  therefore,  boldly,  though  not  irreverently,  mysticism 
and  symbolism  on  the  one  side  ;  cast  away  with  utter  scorn 
geometry  and  legalism  on  the  other  ;  seize  hold  of  God's  hand 
and  look  full  in  the  face  of  His  creation,  and  there  is  nothing 
He  will  not  enable  you  to  achieve. 

Thus,  then,  you  will  find — and  the  more  profound  and  accu- 
rate your  knowledge  of  the  history  of  art  the  more  assuredly 
you  will  find — that  the  living  power  in  all  the  real  schools,  be 
they  great  or  small,  is  love  of  nature.  But  do  not  mistake  me 
by  supposing  that  I  mean  this  law  to  be  all  that  is  necessary 
to  form  a  school.  There  needs  to  be  much  superadded  to  it, 
though  there  never  must  be  anything  superseding  it.  The 
main  thing  which  needs  to  be  superadded  is  the  gift  of  design. 

It  is  always  dangerous,  and  liable  to  diminish  the  clearness 
of  impression,  to  go  over  much  ground  in  the  course  of  one 
Jecture.    But  I  dare  not  present  you  with  a  maimed  view  of 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


31 


tliis  important  subject  :  I  dare  not  put  off  to  another  time, 
when  the  same  persons  would  not  be  again  assembled,  the 
statement  of  the  great  collateral  necessity  which,  as  well  as 
the  necessity  of  truth,  governs  all  noble  art. 

That  collateral  necessity  is  the  visible  operation  of  human 
intellect  in  the  presentation  of  truth,  the  evidence  of  what  is 
properly  called  design  or  plan  in  the  work,  no  less  than  of 
veracit}'.  A  looking-glass  does  not  design — it  receives  and 
communicates  indiscriminately  all  that  passes  before  it ;  a 
painter  designs  when  he  chooses  some  things,  refuses  others, 
and  arranges  all. 

This  selection  and  arrangement  must  have  influence  over 
everything  that  the  art  is  concerned  with,  great  or  small — 
over  lines,  over  colours,  and  over  ideas.  Given  a  certain 
group  of  colours,  by  adding  another  colour  at  the  side  of 
them,  you  will  either  improve  the  group  and  render  it  more 
delightful,  or  injure  it,  and  render  it  discordant  and  unintel- 
ligible. "  Design  "  is  the  choosing  and  placing  the  colour  so 
as  to  help  and  enhance  all  the  other  colours  it  is  set  beside. 
So  of  thoughts  %  in  a  good  composition,  every  idea  is  pre- 
sented in  just  that  order,  and  with  just  that  force,  which  will 
perfectly  connect  it  with  all  the  other  thoughts  in  the  work, 
and  will  illustrate  the  others  as  well  as  receive  illustration 
from  them ;  so  that  the  entire  chain  of  thoughts  offered  to 
the  beholder's  mind  shall  be  received  by  him  with  as  much 
delight  and  with  as  little  effort  as  is  possible.  And  thus  you 
see  design,  properly  so  called,  is  human  invention,  consulting 
human  capacity.  Out  of  the  infinite  heap  of  things  around  us 
in  the  world,  it  chooses  a  certain  number  which  it  can  thor- 
oughly grasp,  and  presents  this  group  to  the  spectator  in  the 
form  best  calculated  to  enable  him  to  grasp  it  also,  and  to 
grasp  it  with  delight. 

And  accordingly,  the  capacities  of  both  gatherer  and  re- 
ceiver being  limited,  the  object  is  to  make  everything  that  you 
offer  helpful  and  precious.  If  you  give  one  grain  of  weight 
too  much,  so  as  to  increase  fatigue  without  profit,  or  bulk 
without  value — that  added  grain  is  hurtful ;  if  you  put  one 
spot  or  one  syllable  out  of  its  proper  place,  that  spot  or  sylla- 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


ble  will  be  destructive — how  far  destructive  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  tell  :  a  misplaced  touch  may  sometimes  annihilate 
the  labour  of  hours.  Nor  are  any  of  us  prepared  to  under- 
stand the  work  of  any  great  master,  till  we  feel  this,  and  feel 
it  as  distinctly  as  we  do  the  value  of  arrangement  in  the  notes 
of  music.  Take  any  noble  musical  air,  and  you  find,  on  exam- 
ining it,  that  not  one  even  of  the  faintest  or  shortest  notes  can 
be  removed  without  destruction  to  the  whole  passage  in  which 
it  occurs ;  and  that  every  note  in  the  passage  is  twenty  times 
more  beautiful  so  introduced,  than  it  would  have  been  if 
played  singly  on  the  instrument.  Precisely  this  degree  of 
arrangement  and  relation  must  exist  between  every  touch* 
and  line  in  a  great  picture.  You  may  consider  the  whole  as 
a  prolonged  musical  composition  :  its  parts,  as  separate  airs 
connected  in  the  story  ;  its  little  bits  and  fragments  of  colour 
and  line,  as  separate  passages  or  bars  in  melodies  ;  and  down 
to  the  minutest  note  of  the  whole — down  to  the  minutest 
touch, — if  there  is  one  that  can  be  spared — that  one  is  doing 
mischief. 

Remember  therefore  always,  you  have  two  characters  in 
■which  all  greatness  of  art  consists : — First,  the  earnest  and 
intense  seizing  of  natural  facts  ;  then  the  ordering  those  facts 
by  strength  of  human  intellect,  so  as  to  make  them,  for  all 
who  look  upon  them,  to  the  utmost  serviceable,  memorable, 
and  beautiful.  And  thus  great  art  is  nothing  else  than  the 
type  of  strong  and  noble  life  ;  for,  as  the  ignoble  person,  in 
his  dealings  with  all  that  occurs  in  the  world  about  him,  first 
sees  nothing  clearly, — looks  nothing  fairly  in  the  face,  and 
then  allows  himself  to  be  swept  away  by  the  trampling  tor- 
rent, and  unescapable  force,  of  the  things  that  he  would  not 
foresee,  and  could  not  understand :  so  the  noble  person,  look- 
ing the  facts  of  the  world  full  in  the  face,  and  fathoming  them 
with  deep  faculty,  then  deals  with  them  in  unalarmecl  intelli- 
gence and  unhurried  strength,  and  becomes,  with  his  human 
intellect  and  will,  no  unconscious  nor  insignificant  agent,  in 
consummating  their  good,  and  restraining  their  evil. 

*  Literally.  I  know  now  exaggerated  this  statement  sounds  •  bat  1 
mean  it,— every  syllable  of  it. --Bee  Appendix  IV. 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


33 


Thus  in  human  life  you  have  the  two  fields  of  rightful  toil 
for  ever  distinguished,  yet  for  ever  associated  ;  Truth  first — 
plan  or  design,  founded  thereon ;  so  in  art,  you  have  the  same 
two  fields  for  ever  distinguished,  for  ever  associated  ;  Truth 
first — plan,  or  design,  founded  thereon. 

Now  hitherto  there  is  not  the  least  difficulty  in  the  subject ; 
none  of  you  can  look  for  a  moment  at  any  great  sculptor  or 
painter  without  seeing  the  full  bearing  of  these  principles. 
But  a  difficulty  arises  when  you  come  to  examine  the  art  of  a 
lower  order,  concerned  with  furniture  and  manufacture,  for  in 
that  art  the  element  of  design  enters  without,  apparently,  the 
element  of  truth.    You  have  often  to  obtain  beauty  and  dis- 
play invention  without  direct  representation  of  nature.  Yet, 
respecting  all  these  things  also,  the  principle  is  perfectly  sim- 
ple.   If  the  designer  of  furniture,  of  cups  and  vases,  of  dress 
patterns,  and  the  like,  exercises  himself  continually  in  the 
imitation  of  natural  form  in  some  leading  division  of  his  work  ; 
then,  holding  by  this  stem  of  life,  he  may  pass  down  into  all 
kinds  of  merely  geometrical  or  formal  design  with  perfect 
safety,  and  with  noble  results.*    Thus  Giotto,  being  prima- 
rily a  figure  painter  and  sculptor,  is,  secondarily,  the  richest 
of  all  designers  in  mere  mosaic  of  coloured  bars  and  triangles  ; 
thus  Benvenuto  Cellini,  being  in  all  the  higher  branches  of 
metal  work  a  perfect  imitator  of  nature^  is  in  all  its  lower 
branches  the  best  designer  of  curve  for  lips  of  cups  and  han- 
dles of  vases  ;  thus  Holbein,  exercised  primarily  in  the  noble 
art  of  truthful  portraiture,  becomes,  secondarily,  the  most  ex- 
quisite designer  of  embroideries  of  robe,  and  blazonries  on 
wall  ;  and  thus  Michael  Angelo,  exercised  primarily  in  the 
drawing  of  body  and  limb,  distributes  in  the  mightiest  masses 
the  order  of  his  pillars,  and  in  the  loftiest  shadow  the  hollows 
of  his  dome.    But  once  quit  hold  of  this  living  stem,  and  set 
yourself  to  the  designing  of  ornamentation,  either  in  the  ig- 
norant play  of  your  own  heartless  fancy,  as  the  Indian  does, 
or  according  to  received  application  of  heartless  laws,  as  the 
modern  European  does,  and  there  is  but  one  word  for  you — 

*  This  principle,  here  cursorily  stated,  is  one  of  the  chief  subjects  of 
inquiry  in  the  following  Lectures. 


34 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Death  : — death  of  every  healthy  faculty,  and  of  every  noble 
intelligence,  incapacity  of  understanding  one  great  work  that 
man  has  ever  done,  or  of  doing  anything  that  it  shall  be  help- 
ful for  him  to  behold.  You  have  cut  yourselves  off  volunta- 
rily, presumptuously,  insolently,  from  the  whole  teaching  of 
your  Maker  in  His  Universe  ;  you  have  cut  yourselves  off  from 
it,  not  because  you  were  forced  to  mechanical  labour  for  your 
bread — not  because  your  fate  had  appointed  you  to  wear  away 
your  life  in  walled  chambers,  or  dig  your  life  out  of  dusty 
furrows  ;  but,  when  your  whole  profession,  your  whole  occu- 
pation— all  the  necessities  and  chances  of  your  existence,  led 
you  straight  to  the  feet  of  the  great  Teacher,  and  thrust  you 
into  the  treasury  of  His  wTorks  ;  wrhere  you  have  nothing  to 
do  but  to  live  by  gazing,  and  to  grow  by  wondering ; — wilfully 
you  bind  up  your  eyes  from  the  splendour — wilfully  bind  up 
your  life-blood  from  its  beating — wilfully  turn  your  backs 
upon  all  the  majesties  of  Omnipotence — wilfully  snatch  your 
hands  from  all  the  aids  of  love ;  and  what  can  remain  for  you, 
but  helplessness  and  blindness, — except  the  worse  fate  than 
the  being  blind  yourselves — that  of  becoming  Leaders  of  the 
blind? 

Do  not  think  that  I  am  speaking  under  excited  feeling,  or 
in  any  exaggerated  terms.  I  have  written  the  words  I  use, 
that  I  may  know  what  I  say,  and  that  you,  if  you  choose,  may 
see  what  I  have  said.  For,  indeed,  I  have  set  before  you  to- 
night, to  the  best  of  my  power,  the  sum  and  substance  of  the 
system  of  art  to  the  promulgation  of  which  I  have  devoted 
my  life  hitherto,  and  intend  to  devote  what  of  life  may  still  be 
spared  to  me.  I  have  had  but  one  steady  aim  in  all  that  I 
have  ever  tried  to  teach,  namely — to  declare  that  whatever  was 
great  in  human  art  was  the  expression  of  man's  delight  in 
God's  work. 

And  at  this  time  I  have  endeavoured  to  prove  to  you — if 
you  investigate  the  subject  you  may  more  entirely  prove  to 
yourselves  —that  no  school  ever  advanced  far  which  had  not 
the  love  of  natural  fact  as  a  primal  energy.  But  it  is  still 
more  important  for  you  to  be  assured  that  the  conditions  of 
life  and  death  in  the  art  of  nations  are  also  the  conditions  of 


POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART 


35 


life  and  death  in  your  own  ;  and  that  you  have  it,  each  in  his 
power  at  this  very  instant,  to  determine  in  which  direction  his 
steps  are  turning.  It  seems  almost  a  terrible  thing  to  tell 
you,  that  all  here  have  all  the  power  of  knowing  at  once  what 
hope  there  is  for  them  as  artists ;  you  would,  perhaps,  like 
better  that  there  was  some  unremovable  doubt  about  the 
chances  of  the  future — some  possibility  that  you  might  be  ad- 
vancing, in  unconscious  ways,  towards  unexpected  successes —  • 
some  excuse  or  reason  for  going  about,  as  students  do  so 
often,  to  this  master  or  the  other,  asking  him  if  they  have 
genius,  and  whether  they  are  doing  right,  and  gathering,  from 
his  careless  or  formal  replies,  vague  flashes  of  encouragement, 
or  fifcfulnesses  of  despair.  There  is  no  need  for  this — no  ex- 
cuse for  it.  All  of  you  have  the  trial  of  yourselves  in  your 
own  power  ;  each  may  undergo  at  this  instant,  before  his  own 
judgment  seat,  the  ordeal  by  fire.  Ask  yourselves  what  is  the 
leading  motive  which  actuates  you  while  you  are  at  work.  I 
do  not  ask  you  what  your  leading  motive  is  for  working — that 
is  a  different  thing ;  you  may  have  families  to  support — par- 
ents to  help — brides  to  wTin  ;  you  may  have  all  these,  or  other 
such  sacred  and  pre-eminent  motives,  to  press  the  morning's 
labour  and  prompt  the  twilight  thought.  But  when  you  are 
fairly  at  the  work,  what  is  the  motive  then  which  tells  upon 
every  touch  of  it  ?  If  it  is  the  love  of  that  which  your  work 
represents — if,  being  a  landscape  painter,  it  is  love  of  hills  and 
trees  that  moves  you — if,  being  a  figure  painter,  it  is  love  of 
human  beauty  and  human  soul  that  moves  you — if,  being  a 
flower  or  animal  painter,  it  is  love,  and  wonder,  and  delight 
in  petal  and  in  limb  that  move  you,  then  the  Spirit  is  upon 
you,  and  the  earth  is  yours,  and  the  fulness  thereof.  But  if, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  is  petty  self-complacency  in  your  own 
skill,  trust  in  precepts  and  laws,  hope  for  academical  or  popu- 
lar approbation,  or  avarice  of  wealth, — it  is  quite  possible  that 
by  steady  industry,  or  even  by  fortunate  chance,  you  may  win 
the  applause,  the  position,  the  fortune,  that  you  desire  ; — but 
one  touch  of  true  art  you  will  never  lay  on  canvas  or  on  stone 
as  long  as  you  live. 

Make,  then,  your  choice,  boldly  and  consciously,  for  one 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


way  or  other  it  must  be  made.  On  the  dark  and  dangerous 
side  are  set,  the  pride  which  delights  in  self-contemplation — 
the  indolence  which  rests  in  unquestioned  forms — the  igno- 
rance that  despises  what  is  fairest  among  God's  creatures,  and 
the  dulness  that  denies  what  is  marvellous  in  His  working  : 
there  is  a  life  of  monotony  for  your  own  souls,  and  of  misguid- 
ing for  those  of  others.  And,  on  the  other  side,  is  open  to 
your  choice  the  life  of  the  crowned  spirit,  moving  as  a  light  in 
creation — discovering  always  —  illuminating  always,  gaining 
every  hour  in  strength,  yet  bowed  down  every  hour  into 
deeper  humility  ;  sure  of  being  right  in  its  aim,  sure  of  being 
irresistible  in  its  progress  ;  happy  in  what  it  has  securely 
done — happier  in  what,  da}r  by  day,  it  may  as  securely  hope  ; 
happiest  at  the  close  of  life,  when  the  right  hand  begins  to 
forget  its  cunning,  to  remember,  that  there  never  was  a  touch 
of  the  chisel  or  the  pencil  it  wielded,  but  has  added  to  the 
knowledge  and  quickened  the  happiness  of  mankind. 


LECTUKE  II. 

THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 

Part  of  an  Address*  delivered  at  Manchester,  lUh  March,  1859. 

It  is  sometimes  my  pleasant  duty  to  visit  other  cities,  in  the 
hope  of  being  able  to  encourage  their  art  students  ;  but  here 
it  is  my  pleasanter  privilege  to  come  for  encouragement  my- 

*  I  was  prevented,  by  press  of  other  engagements,  from  ]3reparing 
this  address  with  the  care  I  wished  ;  and  forced  to  trust  to  such  expres- 
sion as  I  could  give  at  the  moment  to  the  points  of  principal  impor- 
tance ;  reading,  however,  the  close  of  the  preceding  lecture,  which  I 
thought  contained  some  truths  that  would  bear  repetition.  The  whole 
was  reported,  better  than  it  deserved,  by  Mr.  Pitman,  of  the  Manches- 
ter Courier,  and  published  nearly  verbatim.  I  have  here  extracted, 
from  the  published  report,  the  facts  which  I  wish  especially  to  enforce  ; 
and  have  a  little  cleared  their  expression  ;  its  loose  and  colloquial  char- 
acter I  cannot  now  help,  unless  by  re-writing  the  whole,  which  it  seems 
not  worth  while  to  do. 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


37 


self.  I  do  not  know  when  I  have  received  so  much  as  from 
the  report  read  this  evening  by  Mr.  Hammersley,  bearing 
upon  a  subject  which  has  caused  me  great  anxiety.  For  I 
have  always  felt  in  my  own  pursuit  of  art,  and  in  my  en- 
deavors to  urge  the  pursuit  of  art  on  others,  that  while  there 
are  many  advantages  now  that  never  existed  before,  there 
are  certain  grievous  difficulties  existing,  just  in  the  very 
cause  that  is  giving  the  stimulus  to  art — in  the  immense 
spread  of  the  manufactures  of  every  country  which  is  now  at- 
tending vigorously  to  art.  We  find  that  manufacture  and  art 
are  now  going  on  always  together  ;  that  where  there  is  no 
manufacture  there  is  no  art.  I  know  how  much  there  is  of 
pretended  art  where  there  is  no  manufacture  :  there  is  much 
in  Italy,  for  instance  ;  no  country  makes  so  bold  pretence  to 
the  production  of  new  art  as  Italy  at  this  moment ;  yet  no 
country  produces  so  little.  If  you  glance  over  the  map  of 
Europe,  you  will  find  that  where  the  manufactures  are  strong- 
est, there  art  also  is  strongest.  And  yet  I  always  felt  that 
there  was  an  immense  difficulty  to  be  encountered  by  the  stu- 
dents who  were  in  these  centres  of  modern  movement.  They 
had  to  avoid  the  notion  that  art  and  manufacture  were  in  any 
respect  one.  Art  may  be  healthily  associated  with  manufac- 
ture, and  probably  in  future  will  always^  be  so  ;  but  the  stu- 
dent must  be  strenuously  warned  against  supposing  that  they 
can  ever  be  one  and  the  same  thing,  that  art  can  ever  be  foL» 
lowed  on  the  principles  of  manufacture.  Each  must  be  fol- 
lowed separately  ;  the  one  must  influence  the  other,  but  each 
must  be  kept  distinctly  separate  from  the  other. 

It  would  be  well  if  all  students  would  keep  clearly  in  their 
mind  the  real  distinction  between  those  words  which  we  use 
so  often,  "Manufacture,"  "Art,"  and  "Fine  Art."  "Manu- 
facture "  is,  according  to  the  etymology  and  right  use  of  the 
word,  "the  making  of  anything  by  hands," — directly  or  indi- 
rectly, with  or  without  the  help  of  instruments  or  machines. 
Anything  proceeding  from  the  hand  of  man  is  manufacture  ; 
but  it  must  have  proceeded  from  his  hand  only,  acting 
mechanically,  and  uninfluenced  at  the  moment  by  direct  in- 
telligence. 


3S 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Then,  secondly,  Art  is  the  operation  of  the  hand  and  the 
intelligence  of  man  together  ;  there  is  an  art  of  making  ma- 
chinery ;  there  is  an  art  of  building  ships  ;  an  art  of  making 
carriages  ;  and  so  on.  All  these,  properly  called  Arts,  but 
not  Fine  Arts,  are  pursuits  in  which  the  hand  of  man  and  his 
head  go  together,  'working  at  the  same  instant. 

Then  Fine  Art  is  that  in  which  the  hand,  the  head,  and  the 
heart  of  man  go  together. 

Eecollect  this  triple  group ;  it  will  help  you  to  solve  many 
difficult  problems.  And  remember  that  though  the  hand 
must  be  at  the  bottom  of  everything,  it  must  also  go  to  the 
top  of  everything  ;  for  Fine  Art  must  be  produced  by  the 
hand  of  man  in  a  much  greater  and  clearer  sense  than  manu- 
facture is.  Fine  Art  must  always  be  produced  by  the  subtlest 
of  all  machines,  which  is  the  human  hand.  No  machine  yet 
contrived,  or  hereafter  contrivable,  will  ever  equal  the  fine 
machinery  of  the  human  fingers.  Thoroughly  perfect  art  is 
that  which  proceeds  from  the  heart,  which  involves  all  the 
noble  emotions  ; — associates  with  these  the  head,  yet  as  in- 
ferior to  the  heart ;  and  the  hand,  yet  as  inferior  to  the  heart 
and  head  ;  and  thus  brings  out  the  whole  man. 

Hence  it  follows  that  since  Manufacture  is  simply  the  opera- 
tion of  the  hand  of  man  in  producing  that  which  is  useful  to 
him,  it  essentially  separates  itself  from  the  emotions  ;  when 
emotions  interfere  with  machinery  they  spoil  it :  machinery 
must  go  evenly,  without  emotion.  But  the  Fine  Arts  cannot 
go  evenly ;  they  always  must  have  emotion  ruling  their 
mechanism,  and  until  the  pupil  begins  to  feel,  and  until  all 
he  does  associates  itself  with  the  current  of  his  feeling,  he  is 
not  an  artist.  But  pupils  in  all  the  schools  in  this  country 
are  now  exposed  to  all  kinds  of  temptations  which  blunt  their 
feelings.  I  constantly  feel  discouraged  in  addressing  them 
because  I  know  not  how  to  tell  them  boldly  what  they  ought 
to  do,  when  I  feel  how  practically  difficult  it  is  for  them  to  do 
it.  There  are  all  sorts  of  demands  made  upon  them  in  every 
direction,  and  money  is  to  be  made  in  every  conceivable  way 
but  the  right  way.  If  you  paint  as  you  ought,  and  study  as  you 
ought,  depend  upon  it  the  public  will  take  no  notice  of  you 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


39 


for  a  long  while.  If  you  study  wrongly,  and  try  to  drawT  the 
attention  of  the  public  upon  you, — supposing  you  to  be  clever 
students — you  will  get  swift  reward  ;  but  the  reward  does  not 
come  fast  when  it  is  sought  wisely  ;  it  is  always  held  aloof  for 
a  little  while  ;  the  right  roads  of  early  life  are  very  quiet  ones, 
hedged  in  from  nearly  all  help  or  praise.  But  the  wrong 
roads  are  noisy, — vociferous  everywhere  with  all  kinds  of  de- 
mand upon  you  for  art  wThich  is  not  properly  art  at  all ;  and 
in  the  various  meetings  of  modern  interests,  money  is  to  be 
made  in  every  way  ;  but  art  is  to  be  followed  only  in  one  way. 
That  is  what  I  want  mainly  to  say  to  you,  or  if  not  to  you 
yourselves  (for,  from  what  I  have  heard  from  your  excellent 
master  to-night,  I  know  you  are  going  on  all  rightly),  you 
must  let  me  say  it  through  you  to  others.  Our  Schools  of 
Art  are  confused  by  the  various  teaching  and  various  inter- 
ests that  are  now  abroad  among  us.  Everybody  is  talking 
about  art,  and  writing  about  it,  and  more  or  less  interested  in 
it ;  everybody  wants  art,  and  there  is  not  art  for  everybody, 
and  few  who  talk  know  what  they  are  talking  about  ;  thus  stu- 
dents are  led  in  all  variable  wa}^s,  while  there  is  only  one  way 
in  which  they  can  make  steady  progress,  for  true  art  is  always 
and  will  be  always  one.  Whatever  changes  may  be  made  in 
the  customs  of  society,  whatever  new  machines  we  may  invent, 
whatever  new  manufactures  we  may  supply,  Fine  Art  must 
remain  what  it  was  two  thousand  years  ago,  in  the  days  of 
Phidias  ;  two  thousand  years  hence,  it  will  be,  in  all  its  prin- 
ciples, and  in  all  its  great  effects  upon  the  mind  of  man,  just 
the  same.  Observe  this  that  I  say,  please,  carefully,  for  I 
mean  it  to  the  very  utmost.  There  is  but  one  rigid  way  of  do- 
ing  any  given  thing  required  of  an  artist ;  there  may  be  a  hun- 
dred wrong,  deficient,  or  mannered  ways,  but  there  is  only 
one  complete  and  right  way.  Whenever  two  artists  are  try- 
ing to  do  the  same  thing  with  the  same  materials,  and  do  it 
in  different  ways,  one  of  them  is  wrong  ;  he  may  be  charm- 
ingly wrong,  or  impressively  wrong — various  circumstances 
in  his  temper  may  'make  his  wrong  pleasanter  than  any  per- 
son's right ;  it  may  for  him,  under  his  given  limitations  of 
knowledge  or  temper,  be  better  perhaps  that  he  should  err  in 


40 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


his  own  way  than  try  for  anybody  else's — but  for  all  that  his 
way  is  wrong,  and  it  is  essential  for  all  masters  of  schools  to 
know  what  the  right  way  is,  and  what  right  art  is,  and  to  see 
how  simple  and  how  single  all  right  art  has  been,  since  the 
beginning  of  it. 

But  farther,  not  only  is  there  but  one  way  of  doing  things 
rightly,  but  there  is  only  one  way  of  seeing  them,  and  that  is, 
seeing  the  whole  of  them,  without  any  choice,  or  more  in- 
tense perception  of  one  point  than  another,  owing  to  our  spe- 
cial idiosyncrasies.  Thus,  when  Titian  or  Tintoret  look  at  a 
human  being,  they  see  at  a  glance  the  whole  of  its  nature, 
outside  and  in  ;  all  that  it  has  of  form,  of  colour,  of  passion, 
or  of  thought ;  saintliness,  and  loveliness  ;  fleshly  body,  and 
spiritual  power ;  grace,  or  strength,  or  softness,  or  whatso- 
ever other  quality,  those  men  will  see  to  the  full,  and  so  paint, 
that,  when  narrower  people  come  to  look  at  what  they 
have  done,  every  one  may,  if  he  chooses,  find  his  own 
special  pleasure  in  the  work.  The  sensualist  will  find  sensu- 
ality in  Titian  ;  the  thinker  will  find  thought ;  the  saint,  sanc- 
tity ;  the  colourist,  colour ;  the  anatomist,  form  ;  and  yet  the 
picture  will  never  be  a  popular  one  in  the  full  sense,  for  none 
of  these  narrower  people  will  find  their  special  taste  so  alone 
consulted,  as  that  the  qualities  wMch  would  ensure  their  grati- 
fication shall  be  sifted  or  separated  from  others ;  they  are 
checked  by  the  presence  of  the  other  qualities  which  ensure 
the  gratification  of  other  men.  Thus,  Titian  is  not  soft  enough 
for  the  sensualist,  Correggio  suits  him  better ;  Titian  is  not 
defined  enough  for  the  formalist, — Leonardo  suits  him  better ; 
Titian  is  not  pure  enough  for  the  religionist, — Raphael  suits 
him  better ;  Titian  is  not  polite  enough  for  the  man  of  the 
world, — Vandyke  ^uits  him  better  :  Titian  is  not  forcible 
enough  for  the  lovers  of  the  picturesque, — Rembrandt  suits 
him  better.  So  Correggio  is  popular  with  a  certain  set,  and 
Vandyke  with  a  certain  set,  and  Rembrandt  with  a  certain  set. 
All  are  great  men,  but  of  inferior  stamp,  and  therefore  Van- 
dyke is  popular,  and  Rembrandt  is  popular,*  but  nobody 

*  And  Murillo,  of  all  true  painters  the  narrowest,  feeblest,  and  most 
superficial,  for  those  reasons  the  most  popular. 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


41 


cares  much  at  heart  about  Titian  ;  only  there  is  a  strange 
under-current  of  everlasting  murmur  about  his  name,  which 
means  the  deep  consent  of  all  great  men  that  he  is  greater 
than  they — the  consent  of  those  who,  having  sat  long  enough 
at  his  feet,  have  found  in  that  restrained  harmony  of  his 
strength  there  are  indeed  depths  of  each  balanced  power 
more  wonderful  than  all  those  separate  manifestations  in  in- 
ferior painters  :  that  there  is  a  softness  more  exquisite  than 
Correggio's,  a  purity  loftier  than  Leonardo's,  a  force  mightier 
than  Rembrandt's,  a  sanctity  more  solemn  even  than  Raf- 
faelle's. 

Do  not  suppose  that  in  saying  this  of  Titian,  I  am  return- 
ing to  the  old  eclectic  theories  of  Bologna  ;  for  all  those  eclec- 
tic theories,  observe,  were  based,  not  upon  an  endeavour  to 
unite  the  various  characters  of  nature  (which  it  is  possible  to 
do),  but  the  various  narrownesses  of  taste,  which  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  do.  Rubens  is  not  more  vigorous  than  Titian,  but  less 
vigorous  ;  but  because  he  is  so  narrow-minded  as  to  enjoy 
vigour  only,  he  refuses  to  give  the  other  qualities  of  nature, 
which  would  interfere  with  that  vigour  and  with  our  percep- 
tion of  it.  Again,  Rembrandt  is  not  a  greater  master  of  chia- 
roscuro than  Titian  ; — he  is  a  less  master,  but  because  he  is  so 
narrow-minded  as  to  enjoy  chiaroscuro  only,  he  withdraws 
from  you  the  splendour  of  hue  which  would  interfere  with 
this,  and  gives  you  only  the  shadow  in  which  you  can  at  once 
feel  it. 

Now  all  these  specialties  have  their  own  charm  in  their 
own  way  :  and  there  are  times  when  the  particular  humour 
of  each  man  is  refreshing  to  us  from  its  very  distinctness ; 
but  the  effort  to  add  any  other  qualities  to  this  refreshing 
one  instantly  takes  away  the  distinctiveness,  and  therefore 
the  exact  character  to  be  enjoyed  in  its  appeal  to  a  particular 
humour  in  us.  Our  enjoyment  arose  from  a  weakness  meet- 
ing a  weakness,  from  a  partiality  in  the  painter  fitting  to  a 
partiality  in  us,  and  giving  us  sugar  when  we  wanted  sugar, 
and  myrrh  when  we  wanted  myrrh  ;  but  sugar  and  myrrh  are 
not  meat :  and  when  we  want  meat  and  bread,  we  must  go  to 
better  men. 


42 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


The  eclectic  schools  endeavoured  to  unite  these  opposite 
partialities  and  weaknesses.  They  trained  themselves  under 
masters  of  exaggeration,  and  tried  to  unite  opposite  exaggera- 
tions. That  was  impossible.  They  did  not  see  that  the  only 
possible  eclecticism  had  been  already  accomplished  ; — the 
eclecticism  of  temperance,  which,  by  the  restraint  of  force, 
gains  higher  force  ;  and  by  the  self-denial  of  delight,  gains 
higher  delight.  This  you  will  find  is  ultimately  the  case  with 
every  true  and  right  master  ;  at  first,  while  we  are  tyros  in 
art,  or  before  we  have  earnestly  studied  the  man  in  question, 
we  shall  see  little  in  him  ;  or  perhaps  see,  as  we  think,  de- 
ficiencies ;  we  shall  fancy  he  is  inferior  to  this  man  in  that, 
and  to  the  other  man  in  the  other  ;  but  as  we  go  on  studying 
him  we  shall  find  that  he  has  got  both  that  and  the  other  ; 
and  both  in  a  far  higher  sense  than  the  man  who  seemed  to 
possess  those  qualities  in  excess.  Thus  in  Turner's  lifetime, 
when  people  first  looked  at  him,  those  who  liked  rainy 
weather,  said  he  was  not  equal  to  Copley  Fielding  ;  but  those 
who  looked  at  Turner  long  enough  found  that  lie  could  be 
much  more  wet  than  Copley  Fielding,  when  he  chose.  The 
people  who  liked  force,  said  that  "Turner  was  not  strong 
enough  for  them  ;  he  was  effeminate  ;  they  liked  De  Wint, — 
nice  strong  tone  ; — or  Cox — great,  greeny,  dark  masses  of 
colour — solemn  feeling  of  the  freshness  and  depth  of  nature  ; 
— they  liked  Cox — Turner  was  too  hot  for  them."  Had  they 
looked  long  enough  they  would  have  found  that  he  had  far 
more  force  than  De  Wint,  far  more  freshness  than  Cox  when 
he  chose, — only  united  with  other  elements  ;  and  that  he 
didn't  choose  to  be  cool,  if  nature  had  appointed  the  weather 
to  be  hot.  The  people  who  liked  Prout  said  "  Turner  had 
not  firmness  of  hand — he  did  not  know  enough  about  archi- 
tecture— he  was  not  picturesque  enough."  Had  they  looked 
at  his  architecture  long,  they  would  have  found  that  it  con- 
tained subtle  picturesquenesses,  infinitely  more  picturesque 
than  anything  of  Prout's.  People  who  liked  Callcott  said 
that  "Turner  was  not  correct  or  pure  enough — had  no 
classical  taste."  Had  they  looked  at  Turner  long  enough 
they  would  have  found  him  as  severe,  when  he  chose,  as  the 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


43 


greater  Poussin  ; — Callcott,  a  mere  vulgar  imitator  of  other 
men's  high  breeding.  And  so  throughout  with  all  thoroughly 
great  men,  their  strength  is  not  seen  at  first,  precisely 
because  they  unite,  in  due  place  and  measure,  every  great 
quality. 

Now  the  question  is,  whether,  as  students,  we  are  to  study 
only  these  mightiest  men,  who  unite  all  greatness,  or  whether 
we  are  to  study  the  works  of  inferior  men,  who  present  us 
with  the  greatness  which  we  particularly  like  ?  That  question 
often  comes  before  me  when  I  see  a  strong  idiosyncrasy  in  a 
student,  and  he  asks  me  what  he  should  study.  Shall  I  send 
him  to  a  true  master,  who  does  not  present  the  quality  in  a 
prominent  way  in  which  that  student  delights,  or  send  him 
to  a  man  with  whom  he  has  direct  sympathy  ?  It  is  a  hard 
question.  For  very  curious  results  have  sometimes  been 
brought  out,  especially  in  late  years,  not  only  by  students 
following  their  own  bent,  but  by  their  being  withdrawn  from 
teaching  altogether.  I  have  just  named  a  very  great  man  in 
his  owTn  field — Prout.  We  all  know  his  drawings,  and  love 
them  :  they  have  a  peculiar  character  which  no  other  archi- 
tectural drawings  ever  possessed,  and  which  no  others  can 
possess,  because  all  Prout's  subjects  are  being  knocked  down 
or  restored.  (Prout  did  not  like  restored  buildings  any 
more  than  I  do.)  There  will  never  be  any  more  Prout  drawT- 
ings.  Nor  could  he  have  been  what  he  was,  or  expressed 
with  that  mysteriously  effective  touch  that  peculiar  delight  in 
broken  and  old  buildings,  unless  he  had  been  withdrawn  from 
all  high  art  influence.  You  know  that  Prout  was  born  of 
poor  parents — that  he  was  educated  down  in  Cornwall ; — and 
that,  for  many  years,  all  the  art-teaching  he  had  was  his  own, 
or  the  fishermen's.  Under  the  keels  of  the  fishing-boats,  on 
the  sands  of  our  southern  coasts,  Prout  learned  all  that  he 
needed  to  learn  about  art.  Entirely  by  himself,  he  felt  his 
way  to  this  particular  style,  and  became  the  painter  of  pict- 
ures which  I  think  we  should  all  regret  to  lose.  It  becomes 
a  very  difficult  question  what  that  man  would  have  been,  had 
he  been  brought  under  some  entirely  wholesome  artistic  in- 
fluence.   He  had  immense  gifts  of  composition.    I  do  not 


44 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


know  any  man  who  had  more  power  of  invention  than  Prout, 
or  who  had  a  suhlimer  instinct  in  his  treatment  of  things  ; 
but  being  entirely  withdrawn  from  all  artistical  help,  he  blun- 
ders his  way  to  that  short-coming  representation,  which, 
by  the  very  reason  of  its  short-coming,  has  a  certain  charm 
we  should  all  be  sorry  to  lose.  And  therefore  I  feel  embar- 
rassed when  a  student  comes  to  me,  in  whom  I  see  a  strong 
instinct  of  that  kind  :  and  cannot  tell  whether  I  ought  to  say 
to  him,  "  Give  up  all  your  studies  of  old  boats,  and  keep 
away  from  the  sea-shore,  and  come  up  to  the  Royal  Academy 
in  London,  and  look  at  nothing  but  Titian."  It  is  a  difficult 
thing  to  make  up  one's  mind  to  say  that.  However,  I  believe, 
on  the  whole,  we  may  wisely  leave  such  matters  in  the  hands 
of  Providence  ;  that  if  we  have  the  power  of  teaching  the  right 
to  anybody,  we  should  teach  them  the  right ;  if  we  have  the 
power  of  showing  them  the  best  thing,  we  should  show  them 
the  best  thing  ;  there  will  always,  I  fear,  be  enough  want  of 
teaching,  and  enough  bad  teaching,  to  bring  out  very  curious 
erratical  results  if  we  want  them.  So,  if  we  are  to  teach  at  all, 
let  us  teach  the  right  thing,  and  ever  the  right  thing.  There 
are  many  attractive  qualities  inconsistent  with  lightness  ; — 
do  not  let  us  teach  them, — let  us  be  content  to  waive  them. 
There  are  attractive  qualities  in  Burns,  and  attractive  qualities 
in  Dickens,  which  neither  of  those  writers  would  have  pos- 
sessed if  the  one  had  been  educated,  and  the  other  had  been 
studying  higher  nature  than  that  of  cockney  London  ;  but 
those  attractive  qualities  are  not  such  as  we  should  seek  in  a 
school  of  literature.  If  we  want  to  teach  young  men  a  good 
manner  of  writing,  we  should  teach  it  from  Shakspeare, — not 
from  Burns  ;  from  Walter  Scott, — and  not  from  Dickens. 
And  I  believe  that  our  schools  of  painting  are  at  present  in- 
efficient in  their  action,  because  they  have  not  fixed  on  this 
high  principle  what  are  the  painters  to  whom  to  point ;  nor 
boldly  resolved  to  point  to  the  best,  if  determinable.  It  is 
becoming  a  matter  of  stern  necessity  that  they  should  give  a 
simple  direction  to  the  attention  of  the  student,  and  that  they 
should  say,  "  This  is  the  mark  you  are  to  aim  at  ;  and  you 
are  not  to  go  about  to  the  print-shops,  and  peep  in,  to  see 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART 


45 


bow  this  engraver  does  that,  and  the  other  engraver  does  the 
other,  and  how  a  nice  bit  of  character  has  been  caught  by  a 
new  man,  and  why  this  odd  picture  has  caught  the  popular 
attention.  You  are  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  all  that ;  you 
are  not  to  mind  about  popular  attention  just  now  ;  but  here 
is  a  thing  which  is  eternally  right  and  good  :  you  are  to  look 
at  that,  and  see  if  you  cannot  do  something  eternally  right 
and  good  too." 

But  suppose  you  accept  this  principle  :  and  resolve  to  look 
to  some  great  man,  Titian,  or  Turner,  or  whomsoever  it  may 
be,  as  the  model  of  perfection  in  art  ;• — then  the  question  is, 
since  this  great  man  pursued  his  art  in  Venice,  or  in  the  fields 
of  England,  under  totally  different  conditions  from  those  pos- 
sible to  us  now — how  are  you  to  make  your  study  of  him 
effective  here  in  Manchester  ?  howT  bring  it  down  into  patterns* 
and  all  that  you  are  called  upon  as  operatives  to  produce  ? 
how  make  it  the  means  of  your  livelihood,  and  associate  inferior 
branches  of  art  with  this  great  art  ?  That  may  become  a  seri- 
ous doubt  to  you.  You  may  think  there  is  some  other  way  of 
producing  clever,  and  pretty,  and  saleable  patterns  than  going 
to  look  at  Titian,  or  any  other  great  man.  And  that  brings  me 
to  the  question,  perhaps  the  most  vexed  question  of  all  amongst 
us  just  now,  between  conventional  and  perfect  art.  You  know 
that  among  architects  and  artists  there  are,  and  have  been 
almost  always,  since  art  became  a  subject  of  much  discussion, 
two  parties,  one  maintaining  that  nature  should  be  always 
altered  and  modified,  and  that  the  artist  is  greater  than  nat- 
ure ;  they  do  not  maintain,  indeed,  in  words,  but  they  main- 
tain in  idea,  that  the  artist  is  greater  than  the  Divine  Maker 
of  these  things,  and  can  improve  them  ;  while  the  other  party 
say  that  he  cannot  improve  nature,  and  that  nature  on  the 
whole  should  improve  him.  That  is  the  real  meaning  of  the 
two  parties,  the  essence  of  them ;  the  practical  result  of  their 
several  theories  being  that  the  Idealists  are  always  producing 
more  or  less  formal  conditions  of  art,  and  the  Realists  striving 
to  produce  in  all  their  art  either  some  image  of  nature,  or  rec- 
ord of  nature  ;  these,  observe,  being  quite  different  things, 
the  image  being  a  resemblance,  and  the  record,  something 


46 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


which  will  give  information  about  nature,  but  not  necessarily 
imitate  it.* 

*  *  *  #  *  *  * 

You  may  separate  these  two  groups  of  artists  more  distinctly 
in  your  mind  as  those  who  seek  for  the  pleasure  of  art,  in  the 
relations  of  its  colours  and  lines,  without  caring  to  convey 
any  truth  with  it ;  and  those  who  seek  for  the  truth  first, 
and  then  go  down  from  the  truth  to  the  pleasure  of  colour 
and  line.  Marking  those  two  bodies  distinctly  as  separate, 
and  thinking  over  them,  you  may  come  to  some  rather  nota- 
ble conclusions  respecting  the  mental  dispositions  which  are 
involved  in  each  mode  of  study.  You  will  find  that  large 
masses  of  the  art  of  the  world  fall  definitely  under  one  or  the 
other  of  these  heads.  Observe,  pleasure  first  and  truth  after- 
wards, (or  not  at  all,)  as  with  the  Arabians  and  Indians  ;  or, 
truth  first  and  pleasure  afterwards,  as  with  Angelico  and  ail 
other  great  European  painters.  You  will  find  that  the  art 
whose  end  is  pleasure  only  is  pre-eminently  the  gift  of  cruel 
and  savage  nations,  cruel  in  temper,  savage  in  habits  and  con- 
ception ;  but  that  the  art  which  is  especially  dedicated  to  nat- 
ural fact  always  indicates  a  peculiar  gentleness  and  tender- 
ness of  mind,  and  that  all  great  and  successful  work  of  that 
kind  will  assuredly  be  the  production  of  thoughtful,  sensitive, 
earnest,  kind  men,  large  in  their  views  of  life,  and  full  of  vari- 
ous intellectual  power.  And  farther,  when  you  examine  the 
men  in  whom  the  gifts  of  art  are  variously  mingled,  or  uni- 
versally mingled,  you  will  discern  that  the  ornamental,  or 
pleasurable  power,  though  it  may  be  possessed  by  good  men, 
is  not  in  itself  an  indication  of  their  goodness,  but  is  rather, 
unless  balanced  by  other  faculties,  indicative  of  violence  of 
temper,  inclining  to  cruelty  and  to  irreligion.  On  the  other 
hand,  so  sure  as  you  find  any  man  endowed  with  a  keen  and 
separate  faculty  of  representing  natural  fact,  so  surely  you 
will  find  that  man  gentle  and  upright,  full  of  nobleness  and 
breadth  of  thought,    I  will  give  you  two  instances,  the  first 

*  The  portion  of  the  lecture  here  omitted  was  a  recapitulation  of  that 
part  of  the  previous  one  which  opposed  conventional  art  to  natural  art 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


47 


peculiarly  English,  and  another  peculiarly  interesting  because 
it  occurs  among  a  nation  not  generally  very  kind  or  gentle. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that,  considering  all  the  disadvan- 
tages of  circumstances  and  education  under  which  his  genius 
was  developed,  there  was  perhaps  hardly  ever  born  a  man 
with  a  more  intense  and  innate  gift  of  insight  into  nature 
than  our  own  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  Considered  as  a  painter 
of  individuality  in  the  human  form  and  mind,  I  think  him, 
even  as  it  is,  the  prince  of  portrait  painters.  Titian  paints 
nobler  pictures,  and  Vandyke  had  nobler  subjects,  but  neither 
of  them  entered  so  subtly  as  Sir  Joshua  did  into  the  minor 
varieties  of  human  heart  and  temper  ;  and  when  you  consider 
that,  with  a  frightful  conventionality  of  social  habitude  all 
around  him,  he  yet  conceived  the  simplest  types  of  all  feminine 
and  childish  loveliness  ; — that  in  a  northern  climate,  and  with 
gray,  and  white,  and  black,  as  the  principal  colours  around 
him,  he  yet  became  a  colourist  who  can  be  crushed  by  none, 
even  of  the  Venetians  ; — and  that  with  Dutch  painting  and 
Dresden  china  for  the  prevailing  types  of  art  in  the  saloons  of 
his  day,  he  threw  himself  at  once  at  the  feet  of  the  great  mas- 
ters of  Italy,  and  arose  from  their  feet  to  share  their  throne — I 
know  not  that  in  the  whole  history  of  art  you  can  produce 
another  instance  of  so  strong,  so  unaided,  so  unerring  an  in- 
stinct for  all  that  was  true,  pure,  and  noble. 

Now,  do  you  recollect  the  evidence  respecting  the  character 
of  this  man,  —  the  two  points  of  bright  peculiar  evidence  given 
by  the  sayings  of  the  two  greatest  literary  men  of  his  day, 
Johnson  and  Goldsmith  ?  Johnson,  who,  as  you  know,  was 
always  Reynolds'  attached  friend,  had  but  one  complaint  to 
make  against  him,  that  he  hated  nobody: — "  Reynolds,"  he 
Staid,  "  you  hate  no  one  living  ;  I  like  a  good  hater  !  "  Still 
more  significant  is  the  little  touch  in  Goldsmith's  "  Retalia- 
tion." You  recollect  how  in  that  poem  he  describes  the  vari- 
ous persons  who  met  at  one  of  their  dinners  at  St.  James's 
Coffee-house,  each  person  being  described  under  the  name  of 
some  appropriate  dish.  You  will  often  heai  the  concluding 
lines  about  Reynolds  auoted — 

He  siiiitea  his  trumpet,"  &c  *, — 


48 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


loss  often,  or  at  least  less  attentively,  the  preceding  ones,  far 
more  important-  — 

1 1  Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part — 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart;9' 

and  never,  the  most  characteristic  touch  of  all,  near  the  be 
rinninof  : — 

"  Our  dean  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains; 
Our  Burke  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  of  brains. 
.  To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am, 
That  Rich  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  lamb." 

The  other  painter  whom  I  would  give  you  as  an  instance  of 
this  gentleness  is  a  man  of  another  nation,  on  the  whole  I 
suppose  one  of  the  most  cruel  civilized  nations  in  the  world — 
the  Spaniards.  They  produced  but  one  great  painter,  only 
one  ;  but  he  among  the  very  greatest  of  painters,  Velasquez. 
You  would  not  suppose,  from  looking  at  Velasquez'  portraits 
generally,  that  he  was  an  especially  kind  or  good  man  ;  you 
perceive  a  peculiar  sternness  about  them  ;  for  they  were  as 
true  as  steel,  and  the  persons  whom  he  had  to  paint  being  not 
generally  kind  or  good  people,  they  were  stern  in  expression, 
and  Velasquez  gave  the  sternness  ;  but  he  had  precisely  the 
same  intense  perception  of  truth,  the  same  marvellous  instinct 
for  the  rendering  of  all  natural  soul  and  all  natural  form  that 
our  Reynolds  had.  Let  me,  then,  read  you  his  character  as  it 
is  given  by  Mr.  Stirling,  of  Kier  : — 

"  Certain  charges,  of  what  nature  we  are  not  informed, 
brought  against  him  after  his  death,  made  it  necessary  for  his 
executor,  Fuensalida,  to  refute  them  at  a  private  audience 
granted  to  him  by  the  king  for  that  purpose.  After  listening 
to  the  defence  of  his  friend,  Philip  immediately  made  answer  : 
'I  can  believe  all  you  say  of  the  excellent  disposition  of 
Diego  Velasquez.'  Having  lived  for  half  his  life  in  courts,  he 
was  yet  capable  both  of  gratitude  and  generosity,  and  in  the 
misfortunes,  he  could  remember  the  early  kindness  of  Oliva- 
res.  The  friend  of  the  exile  of  Loeches,  it  is  just  to  believe 
that  he  was  also  the  friend  of  the  all-powerful  favourite  at 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


49 


Buenretiro.  No  mean  jealousy  ever  influenced  his  conduct 
to  his  brother  artists  ;  he  could  afford  not  only  to  acknowl- 
edge the  merits,  but  to  forgive  the  malice,  of  his  rivals.  His 
character  was  of  that  rare  and  happy  kind,  in  which  high  intel- 
lectual power  is  combined  with  indomitable  strength  of  will,  and 
a  winning  sweetness  of  temper,  and  which  seldom  fails  to  raise 
the  possessor  above  his  fellow-men,  making  his  life  a 

'  laurelled  victory,  and  smooth  success 
Be  strewed  before  his  feet.J" 

I  am  sometimes  accused  of  trying  to  make  art  too  moral ; 
yet,  observe,  I  do  not  say  in  the  least  that  in  order  to  be  a 
good  painter  you  must  be  a  good  man  ;  but  I  do  say  that  in 
order  to  be  a  good  natural  painter  there  must  be  strong 
elements  of  good  in  the  mind,  however  warped  by  other  parta 
of  the  character.  There  are  hundreds  of  other  gifts  of  paint- 
ing which  are  not  at  all  involved  with  moral  conditions,  but 
this  one,  the  perception  of  nature,  is  never  given  but  under 
certain  moral  conditions.  Therefore,  now  you  have  it  in  your 
choice  ;  here  are  your  two  paths  for  you  :  it  is  required  of 
you  to  produce  conventional  ornament,  and  you  may  approach 
the  task  as  the  Hindoo  does,  and  as  the  Arab  did,  without 
nature  at  all,  with  the  chance  of  approximating  your  disposi- 
tion somewhat  to  that  of  the  Hindoos  and  Arabs  ;  or  as  Sir 
Joshua  and  Velasquez  did,  with,  not  the  chance,  but  the  cer- 
tainty, of  approximating  your  disposition,  according  to  the 
sincerity  of  your  effort — to  the  disposition  of  those  great  and 
good  men. 

And  do  you  suppose  you  will  lose  anything  by  approaching 
your  conventional  art  from  this  higher  side  ?  Not  so.  I 
called,  with  deliberate  measurement  of  my  expression,  long 
ago,  the  decoration  of  the  Alhambra  "  detestable/'  not  merely 
because  indicative  of  base  conditions  of  moral  being,  but  be- 
cause merely  as  decorative  work,  however  captivating  in  some 
respects,  it  is  wholly  wanting  in  the  real,  deep,  and  intense 
qualities  of  ornamental  art.  Noble  conventional  decoration 
belongs  only  to  three  periods.  First,  there  is  the  conven- 
tional decoration  of  the  Greeks,  used  in  subordination  to  their 


50 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


sculpture.  There  are  then  the  noble  conventional  decoration 
of  the  early  Gothic  schools,  and  the  noble  conventional  ara- 
besque of  the  great  Italian  schools.  All  these  were  reached 
from  above,  all  reached  by  stooping  from  a  knowledge  of  the 
human  form.  Depend  upon  it  you  will  find,  as  you  look 
more  and  more  into  the  matter,  that  good  subordinate  orna- 
ment has  ever  been  rooted  in  a  higher  knowledge  ;  and  if  you 
are  again  to  produce  anything  that  is  noble,  you  must  have 
the  higher  knowledge  first,  and  descend  to  all  lower  service  ; 
condescend  as  much  as  you  like,  — condescension  never  does 
any  man  any  harm, — but  get  your  noble  standing  first.  So, 
then,  without  any  scruple,  whatever  branch  of  art  you  may  be 
inclined  as  a  student  here  to  follow, — whatever  you  are  to 
make  }rour  bread  by,  I  say,  so  far  as  you  have  time  and  power, 
make  yourself  first  a  noble  and  accomplished  artist ;  under- 
stand at  least  what  noble  and  accomplished  art  is,  and  then 
you  will  be  able  to  apply  your  knowledge  to  all  service  what- 
soever. 

I  am  now  going  to  ask  your  permission  to  name  the  masters 
whom  I  think  it  would  be  well  if  we  could  agree,  in  our  Schools 
of  Art  in  England,  to  consider  our  leaders.  The  first  and  chief 
I  will  not  myself  presume  to  name  ;  he  shall  be  distinguished 
for  you  by  the  authority  of  those  two  great  painters  of  whom 
we  have  just  been  speaking — Reynolds  and  Velasquez.  You 
may  remember  that  in  your  Manchester  Art  Treasures  Exhibi- 
tion the  most  impressive  things  were  the  works  of  those  two 
men — nothing  told  upon  the  eye  so  much  ;  no  other  pictures 
retained  it  with  such  a  persistent  power.  Now,  I  have  the 
testimony,  first  of  Keynolds  to  Velasquez,  and  then  of  Velasquez 
to  the  man  whom  I  want  you  to  take  as  the  master  of  all  your 
English  schools.  The  testimony  of  Reynolds  to  Velasquez  is 
very  striking.  I  take  it  from  some  fragments  which  have  just 
been  published  by  Mr.  William  Cotton — precious  fragments 
— of  Reynolds'  diaries,  which  I  chanced  upon  luckily  as  I  was 
coming  down  here  :  for  I  was  going  to  take  Velasquez'  testi- 
mony alone,  and  then  fell  upon  this  testimony  of  Reynolds  to 
Velasquez,  written  most  fortunately  in  Reynolds'  own  hand— 
you  may  see  the  manuscript.    "  What  we  are  all,"  said  Rey- 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


51 


nolds,  "  attempting  to  do  with  great  labor,  Velasquez  does  at 
once."  Just  think  what  is  implied  when  a  man  of  the  enor- 
mous power  and  facility  that  Eeynolds  had,  says  he  was  "  try- 
ing to  do  with  great  labor"  what  Velasquez  "  did  at  once." 

Having  thus  Eeynolds'  testimony  to  Velasquez,  I  will  take 
Velasquez'  testimony  to  somebody  else.  You  know  that  Velas- 
quez was  sent  by  Philip  of  Spain  to  Italy,  to  buy  pictures  for 
him.  He  went  all  over  Italy,  saw  the  living  artists  there,  and 
all  their  best  pictures  when  freshly  painted,  so  that  he  had 
every  opportunity  of  judging ;  and  never  was  a  man  so  capable 
of  judging.  He  went  to  Eome  and  ordered  various  works  of 
living  artists  ;  and  while  there,  he  was  one  day  asked  by  Salva- 
tor  Eosa  what  he  thought  of  Eaphael.  His  reply,  and  the 
ensuing  conversation,  are  thus  reported  by  Boschini,  in  curious 
Italian  verse,  which,  thus  translated  by  Dr.  Donaldson,  is 
quoted  in  Mr.  Stirling's  Life  of  Velasquez  : — 

"  The  master  "  [Velasquez]  "stiffly  bowed  his  figure  tall 
And  said,  1  For  Rafael,  to  speak  the  truth — 
I  always  was  plain-spoken  from  my  youth — 
I  cannot  say- 1  like  his  works  at  all.' 

"  'Well,'  said  the  other"  [Salvator],  "  'if  you  can  run  down;' 
So  great  a  man,  I  really  cannot  see 
What  you  can  find  to  like  in  Italy  ; 
To  him  we  all  agree  to  give  the  crown.' 

M  Diego  answered  thus  :  '  I  saw  in  Venice 
The  true  test  of  the  good  and  beautiful  ; 
First  in  my  judgment,  ever  stands  that  school, 
And  Titian  first  of  all  Italian  men  is.'  " 

"  Tizian  ze  quel  die  porta  la  bandiera." 

Learn  that  line  by  heart,  and  act,  at  all  events  for  some  time 
to  come,  upon  Velasquez'  opinion  in  that  matter.  Titian  is 
much  the  safest  master  for  you.  Kaphael's  power,  such  as  it 
was,  and  great  as  it  was,  depended  wholly  upon  transcendental 
characters  in  his  mind  ;  it  is  "  Raphaelesque,"  properly  so 
called  ;  but  Titian's  power  is  simply  the  power  of  doing  right. 
Whatever  came  before  Titian,  he  did  wholly  as  it  ought  to  be 


52 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


clone.  Do  not  suppose  that  now  in  recommending  Titian  to 
you  so  strongly,  and  speaking  of  nobody  else  to-night,  I  am 
retreating  in  anywise  from  what  some  of  you  may  perhaps  rec- 
ollect in  my  works,  the  enthusiasm  with  which  I  have  always 
spoken  of  another  Venetian  painter.  There  are  three  Vene- 
tians who  are  never  separated  in  my  mind — Titian,  Veronese, 
and  Tintoret.  They  all  have  their  own  unequalled  gifts,  and 
Tintoret  especially  has  imagination  and  depth  of  soul  which  I 
think  renders  him  indisputably  the  greatest  man  ;  but,  equally 
indisputably,  Titian  is  the  greatest  painter  ;  and  therefore  the 
greatest  painter  who  ever  lived.  You  may  be  led  wrong  by 
Tintoret  *  in  many  respects,  wrong  by  Raphael  in  more  ;  all 
that  you  learn  from  Titian  will  be  right.  Then,  with  Titian, 
take  Leonardo,  Rembrandt,  and  Albert  Durer.  I  name  those 
three  masters  for  this  reason  :  Leonardo  has  powers  of  subtle 
drawing  which  are  peculiarly  applicable  in  many  ways  to  the 
drawing  of  fine  ornament,  and  are  very  useful  for  all  students. 
Rembrandt  and  Durer  are  the  only  men  whose  actual  work  of 
hand  you  can  have  to  look  at ;  you  can  have  Rembrandt's 
etchings,  or  Durer's  engravings  actually  hung  in  your  schools  ; 
and  it  is  a  main  point  for  the  student  to  see  the  real  thing,  and 
avoid  judging  of  masters  at  second-hand.  As,  however,  in 
obeying  this  principle,  you  cannot  often  have  opportunities  of 
studying  Venetian  painting,  it  is  desirable  that  you  should 
have  a  useful  standard  of  colour,  and  I  think  it  is  possible  for 
you  to  obtain  this.  I  cannot,  indeed,  without  entering  upon 
ground  which  might  involve  the  hurting  the  feelings  of  living 
artists,  state  exactly  what  I  believe  to  be  the  relative  position 
of  various  painters  in  England  at  present  with  respect  to  power 
of  colour.  But  I  may  say  this,  that  in  the  peculiar  gifts  of 
colour  which  will  be  useful  to  you  as  students,  there  are  only 
one  or  two  of  the  pre-Raphaelites,  and  William  Hunt,  of  the 
old  Water  Colour  Society,  who  would  be  safe  guides  for  you  ; 
and  as  quite  a  safe  guide,  there  is  nobody  but  William  Hunt, 
because  the  pre-Raphaelites  are  all  more  or  less  affected  by 
enthusiasm  and  by  various  morbid  conditions  of  intellect  and 
temper  ;  but  old  William  Hunt — I  am  sorry  to  say  "  old,"  but 
*  See  Appendix  I.  — u  Right  and  Wrong." 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


53 


I  say  it  in  a  loving  way,  for  every  year  that  has  added  to  his 
life  has  added  also  to  his  skill — William  Hunt  is  as  right  as 
the  Venetians,  as  far  as  he  goes,  and  what  is  more,  nearly  as 
inimitable  as  they.  And  I  think  if  we  manage  to  put  in  the 
principal  schools  of  England  a  little  bit  of  Hunt's  work,  and 
make  that  somewhat  of  a  standard  of  colour,  that  we  can  ap- 
ply his  principles  of  colouring  to  subjects  of  all  kinds.  Until 
you  have  had  a  work  of  his  long  near  you  ;  nay,  unless  you 
have  been  labouring  at  it,  and  trying  to  copy  it,  you  do  not 
know  the  thoroughly  grand  qualities  that  are  concentrated  in 
it.  Simplicity,  and  intensity,  both  of  the  highest  character  ; 
— simplicity  of  aim,  and  intensity  of  power  and  success,  are 
involved  in  that  man's  unpretending  labour. 

Finally,  you  cannot  believe  that  I  would  omit  my  own 
favourite,  Turner.  I  fear  from  the  very  number  of  his  works 
left  to  the  nation,  that  there  is  a  disposition  now  rising  to 
look  upon  his  vast  bequest  with  some  contempt.  I  beg  of 
you,  if  in  nothing  else,  to  believe  me  in  this,  that  you  cannot 
further  the  art  of  England  in  any  way  more  distinctly  than  by 
giving  attention  to  every  fragment  that  has  been  left  by  that 
man.  The  time  will  come  when  his  full  power  and  right 
place  will  be  acknowledged  ;  that  time  will  not  be  for  many  a 
day  yet :  nevertheless,  be  assured — as  far  as  you  are  inclined 
to  give  the  least  faith  to  anything  I  may  say  to  you,  be  as- 
sured— that  you  can  act  for  the  good  of  art  in  England  in  no 
better  way  than  by  using  whatever  influence  any  of  you  have 
in  any  direction  to  urge  the  reverent  study  and  yet  more 
reverent  preservation  of  the  works  of  Turner.  I  do  not  say 
"  the  exhibition  "  of  his  works,  for  wTe  are  not  altogether  ripe 
for  it :  they  are  still  too  far  above  us  ;  uniting,  as  I  was  telling 
you,  too  many  qualities  for  us  yet  to  feel  fully  their  range  and 
their  influence  ; — but  let  us  only  try  to  keep  them  safe  from 
harm,  and  show  thoroughly  and  conveniently  what  we  show 
of  them  at  all,  and  day  by  day  their  greatness  will  dawn  upon 
us  more  and  more,  and  be  the  root  of  a  school  of  art  in  Eng- 
land, which  I  do  not  doubt  may  be  as  bright,  as  just,  and  as 
refined  as  even  that  of  Venice  herself.  The  dominion  of  the 
sea  seems  to  have  been  associated,  in  past  time,  with  dominion 


54 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


in  the  arts  also :  Athens  had  them  together  ;  Venice  had  them 
together  ;  but  by  so  much  as  our  authority  over  the  ocean  is 
wider  than  theirs  over  the  iEgean  or  Adriatic,  let  us  strive  to 
make  our  art  more  widely  beneficent  than  theirs,  though  it 
cannot  be  more  exalted  ;  so  working  out  the  fulfilment,  in 
their  wakening  as  well  as  their  warning  sense,  of  those  great 
words  of  the  aged  Tintoret : 

"Sempre  si  fa  il  Mare  Maggiore." 


LECTURE  III. 

MODERN  manufacture  and  design. 

A  Lecture  delivered  at  Bradford,  March,  1859. 

It  is  with  a  deep  sense  of  necessity  for  your  indulgence  that  I 
venture  to  address  you  to-night,  or  that  I  venture  at  any  time 
to  address  the  pupils  of  schools  of  design  intended  for  the 
advancement  of  taste  in  special  branches  of  manufacture.  No 
person  is  able  to  give  useful  and  definite  help  towards  such 
special  applications  of  art,  unless  he  is  entirely  familiar  with 
the  conditions  of  labour  and  natures  of  material  involved  in 
the  work  ;  and  indefinite  help  is  little  better  than  no  help  at 
all.  Nay,  the  few  remarks  which  I  propose  to  lay  before  you 
this  evening  will,  I  fear,  be  rather  suggestive  of  difficulties 
than  helpful  in  conquering  them :  nevertheless,  it  may  not  be 
altogether  unserviceable  to  define  clearly  for  you  (and  this,  at 
least,  I  am  able  to  do)  one  or  two  of  the  more  stern  general 
obstacles  which  stand  at  present  in  the  way  of  our  success  in 
design  ;  and  to  warn  you  against  exertion  of  effort  in  any  vain 
or  wasteful  way,  till  these  main  obstacles  are  removed. 

The  first  of  these  is  our  not  understanding  the  scope  and 
dignity  of  Decorative  design.  With  all  our  talk  about  it,  the 
very  meaning  of  the  words  "  Decorative  art  "  remains  confused 
and  undecided.  I  want,  if  possible,  to  settle  this  question  for 
you  to-night,  and  to  show  you  that  the  principles  on  which  you 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN.  55 


must  work  are  likely  to  be  false,  in  proportion  as  they  are 
narrow  ;  true,  only  as  they  are  founded  on  a  perception  of  the 
connection  of  all  branches  of  art  with  each  other. 

Observe,  then,  first — the  only  essential  distinction  between 
Decorative  and  other  art  is  the  being  fitted  for  a  fixed  place ;  and 
in  that  place,  related,  either  in  subordination  or  command,  to 
the  effect  of  other  pieces  of  art.  And  all  the  greatest  art  which 
the  world  has  produced  is  thus  fited  for  a  place,  and  subor- 
dinated to  a  purpose.  There  is  no  existing  highest-order  art 
but  is  decorative.  The  best  sculpture  yet  produced  has  been 
the  decoration  of  a  temple  front — the  best  painting,  the  deco- 
ration of  a  room.  Kaphael's  best  doing  is  merely  the  wall-col- 
ouring of  a  suite  of  apartments  in  the  Vatican,  and  his  car- 
toons were  made  for  tapestries.  Correggio's  best  doing  is  the 
decoration  of  two  small  church  cupolas  at  Parma ;  Michael 
Angelo's  of  a  ceiling  in  the  Pope's  private  chapel ;  Tintoret's, 
of  a  ceiling  and  side  wall  belonging  to  a  charitable  society  at 
Venice  ;  while  Titian  and  Veronese  threw  out  their  noblest 
thoughts,  not  even  on  the  inside,  but  on  the  outside  of  the 
common  brick  and  plaster  walls  of  Venice. 

Get  rid,  then,  at  once  of  any  idea  of  Decorative  art  being  a 
degraded  or  a  separate  kind  of  art.  Its  nature  or  essence  is 
simply  its  being  fitted  for  a  definite  place  ;  and,  in  that  place, 
forming  part  of  a  great  and  harmonious  whole,  in  companion- 
ship with  other  art ;  and  so  far  from  this  being  a  degradation 
to  it — so  far  from  Decorative  art  being  inferior  to  other  art 
because  it  is  fixed  to  a  spot — on  the  whole  it  may  be  consid- 
ered as  rather  a  piece  of  degradation  that  it  should  be  port- 
able. Portable  art — independent  of  all  place — is  for  the  most 
part  ignoble  art.  Your  little  Dutch  landscape,  which  you  put 
over  your  sideboard  to-day,  and  between  the  windows  to- 
morrow, is  a  far  more  contemptible  piece  of  work  than  the  ex- 
tents of  field  and  forest  with  which  Benozzo  has  made  green 
and  beautiful  the  once  melancholy  arcade  of  the  Campo  Santo 
at  Pisa  ;  and  the  wild  boar  of  silver  which  you  use  for  a  seal, 
or  lock  into  a  velvet  case,  is  little  likely  to  be  so  noble  a  beast 
as  the  bronze  boar  who  foams  forth  the  fountain  from  under 
his  tusks  in  the  market-place  of  Florence.    It  is,  indeed,  po.?« 


56 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


sible  that  the  portable  picture  or  image  may  be  first-rate  of  its 
kind,  but  it  is  not  first-rate  because  it  is  portable  ;  nor  are 
Titian's  frescoes  less  than  first-rate  because  they  are  fixed  ;  nay, 
very  frequently  the  highest  compliment  you  can  pay  to  a  cab- 
inet picture  is  to  say — "*'It  is  as  grand  as  a  fresco." 

Keeping,  then,  this  fact  fixed  in  our  minds, — that  all  art 
may  be  decorative,  and  that  the  greatest  art  yet  produced  has 
been  decorative, — we  may  proceed  to  distinguish  the  orders 
and  dignities  of  decorative  art,  thus : — 

I.  The  first  order  of  it  is  that  which  is  meant  for  places 
where  it  cannot  be  disturbed  or  injured,  and  where  it  can 
be  perfectly  seen  ;  and  then  the  main  parts  of  it  should  be, 
and  have  always  been  made,  by  the  great  masters,  as  perfect, 
and  as  full  of  nature  as  possible. 

You  will  every  day  hear  it  absurdly  said  that  room  deco- 
ration should  be  by  flat  patterns — by  dead  colours — by  con- 
ventional monotonies,  and  I  know  not  what.  Now,  just  be 
assured  of  this — nobody  ever  yet  used  conventional  art 
to  decorate  with,  when  he  could  do  anything  better,  and 
knew  that  what  he  did  would  be  safe.  Nay,  a  great  painter 
will  always  give  you  the  natural  art,  safe  or  not.  Correggio 
gets  a  commission  to  paint  a  room  on  the  ground  floor  of 
a  palace  at  Parma  :  any  of  our  people — bred  on  our  fine 
modern  principles — would  have  covered  it  with  a  diaper, 
or  with  stripes  or  flourishes,  or  mosaic  patterns.  Not  so 
Correggio :  he  paints  a  thick  trellis  of  vine-leaves,  with  oval 
openings,  and  lovely  children  leaping  through  them  into  the 
room  ;  and  lovely  children,  depend  upon  it,  are  rather  more 
desirable  decorations  than  diaper,  if  you  can  do  them — but 
they  are  not  quite  so  easily  done.  In  like  manner  Tintoret 
has  to  paint  the  whole  end  of  the  Council  Hall  at  Venice. 
An  orthodox  decorator  would  have  set  himself  to  make  the 
wall  look  like  a  wall — Tintoret  thinks  it  would  be  rather 
better,  if  he  can  manage  it,  to  make  it  look  a  little  like  Para- 
dise ; — stretches  his  canvas  right  over  the  wail,  and  his  clouds 
right  over  his  canvas  ;  brings  the  light  through  his  clouds- 
all  blue  and  clear — zodiac  beyond  zodiac  ;  rolls  away  the 
vaporous  flood  from  under  the  feet  of  saints,  leaving  them  at 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN. 


57 


last  in  infinitudes  of  light — unorthodox  in  the  last  degree,  but, 
on  the  whole,  pleasant. 

And  so  in  all  other  cases  whatever,  the  greatest  decorative 
art  is  wholly  unconventional — downright,  pure,  good  painting 
and  sculpture,  but  always  fitted  for  its  place;  and  subordi- 
nated to  the  purpose  it  has  to  serve  in  that  place. 

II.  But  if  art  is  to  be  placed  where  it  is  liable  to  injury — 
to  wear  and  tear ;  or  to  alteration  of  its  form  ;  as,  for  in- 
stance, on  domestic  Utensils,  and  armour,  and  weapons,  and 
dress ;  in  which  either  the  ornament  will  be  worn  out  by 
the  usage  of  the  thing,  or  will  be  cast  into  altered  shape  by 
the  play  of  its  folds ;  then  it  is  wrong  to  put  beautiful  and 
perfect  art  to  such  uses,  and  you  want  forms  of  inferior  art, 
such  as  will  be  by  their  simplicity  less  liable  to  injury  ;  or, 
by  reason  of  their  complexity  and  eontinuousness,  may  show 
to  advantage,  however  distorted  by  the  folds  they  are  cast 
into. 

And  thus  arise  the  various  forms  of  inferior  decorative  art, 
respecting  which  the  general  law  is,  that  the  lower  the  place 
and  office  of  the  thing,  the  less  of  natural  or  perfect  form 
you  should  have  in  it ;  a  zigzag  or  a  chequer  is  thus  a  better, 
because  a  more  consistent  ornament  for  a  cup  or  platter  than 
a  landscape  or  portrait  is  :  hence  the  general  definition  of  the 
true  forms  of  conventional  ornament  is,  that  they  consist  in 
the  bestowal  of  as  much  beauty  on  the  object  as  shall  be  con- 
sistent with  its  Material,  its  Place,  and  its  Office. 

Let  us  consider  these  three  modes  of  consistency  a  little. 

(a.)  Convention alism  by  cause  of  inefficiency  of  material. 

If,  for  instance,  we  are  required  to  represent  a  human 
figure  with  stone  only,  we  cannot  represent  its  colour ;  we 
reduce  its  colour  to  whiteness.  That  is  not  elevating  the 
human  body,  but  degrading  it ;  only  it  would  be  a  much 
greater  degradation  to  give  its  colour  falsely.  Diminish 
beauty  as  much  as  you  will,  but  do  not  misrepresent  it.  So 
again,  when  we  are  sculpturing  a  face,  we  can't  carve  its  eye- 
lashes. The  face  is  none  the  better  for  wanting  its  eyelashes 
— it  is  injured  by  the  want ;  but  would  be  much  more  injured 
by  a  clumsy  representation  of  them. 


5S 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Neither  can  we  carve  the  hair.  We  must  be  content  with 
the  conventionalism  of  vile  solid  knots  and  lumps  of  marble, 
instead  of  the  golden  cloud  that  encompasses  the  fair  human 
face  with  its  waving  mystery.  The  lumps  of  marble  are  not 
an  elevated  representation  of  hair — they  are  a  degraded  one  ; 
yet  better  than  any  attempt  to  imitate  hair  with  the  incapable 
material. 

In  all  cases  in  which  such  imitation  is  attempted,  instant 
degradation  to  a  still  lower  level  is  the  result.  For  the 
effort  to  imitate  shows  that  the  workman  has  only  a  base  and 
poor  conception  of  the  -beauty  of  the  reality — else  he  would 
know  his  task  to  be  hopeless,  and  give  it  up  at  once  ;  so  that 
all  endeavours  to  avoid  conventionalism,  when  the  material 
demands  it,  result  from  insensibility  to  truth,  and  are  among 
the  worst  forms  of  vulgarity.  Hence,  in  the  greatest  Greek 
statues,  the  hair  is  very  slightly  indicated — not  because  the 
sculptor  disdained  hair,  but  because  he  knew  what  it  was  too 
well  to  touch  it  insolently.  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  the 
Greek  painters  drew  hair  exactly  as  Titian  does.  Modern 
attempts  to  jDroduce  finished  pictures  on  glass  result  from  the 
same  base  vulgarism.  No  man  who  knows  what  painting 
means,  can  endure  a  painted  glass  window  which  emulates 
painter's  work.  But  he  rejoices  in  a  glowing  mosaic  di 
broken  colour  :  for  that  is  what  the  glass  has  the  special  gift 
and  right  of  producing.* 

(b.  )  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inferiority  of  place. 

When  work  is  to  be  seen  at  a  great  distance,  or  in  dark 
places,  or  in  some  other  imperfect  way,  it  constantly  becomes 
necessary  to  treat  it  coarsely  or  severely,  in  order  to  make  it 
effective.  The  statues  on  cathedral  fronts,  in  good  times  of 
design,  are  variously  treated  according  to  their  distances :  no 
fine  execution  is  put  into  the  features  of  the  Madonna  who 
rules  the  group  of  figures  above  the  south  transept  of  Rouen 
at  150  feet  above  the  ground  ;  but  in  base  modern  work,  as 
Milan  Cathedral,  the  sculpture  is  finished  without  any  refer- 
ence to  distance  ;  and  the  merit  of  every  statue  is  supposed 

*  See  Appendix  IT.,  Sir  Joshua.  Peyriolds's  disappointment. 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN 


59 


to  consist  in  the  visitor's  being  obliged  to  ascend  three  hun- 
dred steps  before  he  can  see  it. 

(c.)  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inferiority  of  office. 

When  one  piece  of  ornament  is  to  be  subordinated  to  an- 
other (as  the  moulding  is  to  the  sculpture  it  encloses,  or  the 
fringe  of  a  drapery  to  the  statue  it  veils),  this  inferior  orna- 
ment needs  to  be  degraded  in  order  to  mark  its  lower  office  ; 
and  this  is  best  done  by  refusing,  more  or  less,  the  introduc- 
tion of  natural  form.  The  less  of  nature  it  contains,  the  more 
degraded  is  the  ornament,  and  the  fitter  for  a  humble  place  ; 
but,  however  far  a  great  workman  may  go  in  refusing  the 
higher  organisms  of  nature,  he  always  takes  care  to  retain  the 
magnificence  of  natural  lines ;  that  is  to  say,  of  the  infinite 
curves,  such  as  I  have  analyzed  in  the  fourth  volume  of 
"  Modern  Painters."  His  copyists,  fancying  that  they  can  fol- 
low him  without  nature,  miss  precisely  the  essence  of  all  the 
work  ;  so  that  even  the  simplest  piece  of  Greek  conventional 
ornament  loses  the  whole  of  its  value  in  any  modern  imitation 
of  it,  the  finer  curves  being  always  missed.  Perhaps  one  of 
the  dullest  and  least  justifiable  mistakes  which  have  yet  been 
made  about  my  writing,  is  the  supposition  that  I  have  attacked 
or  despised  Greek  work.  I  have  attacked  Palladian  work, 
and  modern  imitation  of  Greek  work.  Of  Greek  work  itself 
I  have  never  spoken  but  with  a  reverence  quite  infinite  :  I  name 
Phidias  always  in  exactly  the  same  tone  with  which  I  speak 
of  Michael  Angelo,  Titian,  and  Dante.  My  first  statement  of 
this  faith,  now  thirteen  years  ago,  was  surely  clear  enough. 
"We  shall  see  by  this  light  three  colossal  images  standing  up 
side  by  side,  looming  in  their  great  rest  of  spirituality  above 
the  whole  world  horizon.  Phidias,  Michael  Angelo,  and 
Dante, — from  these  we  may  go  down  step  by  step  among  the 
mighty  men  of  every  age,  securely  and  certainly  observant  of  di- 
minished lustre  in  every  appearance  of  restlessness  and  effort, 
until  the  last  trace  of  inspiration  vanishes  in  the  tottering 
affectation  or  tortured  insanities  of  modern  times."  ("  Mod- 
ern Painters,"  vol.  ii,,  p.  253.)  This  was  surely  plain  speaking 
enough,  and  from  that  day  to  this  my  effort  has  been  not  less 
continually  to  make  the  heart  of  Greek  work  known  than  the 


CO 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


heart  of  Gothic  :  namely,  the  nobleness  of  conception  of  form 
derived  from  perpetual  study  of  the  figure  ;  and  my  complaint 
of  the  modern  architect  has  been  not  that  he  followed  the 
Greeks,  but  that  he  denied  the  first  laws  of  life  in  theirs  as  in 
ail  other  art. 

The  fact  is,  that  all  good  subordinate  forms  of  ornamenta- 
tion ever  yet  existent  in  the  world  have  been  invented,  and 
others  as  beautiful  can  only  be  invented,  by  men  primarily 
exercised  in  drawing  or  carving  the  human  figure.  I  will  not 
repeat  here  what  I  have  already  twice  insisted  upon,  to  the 
students  of  London  and  Manchester,  respecting  the  degrada- 
tion of  temper  and  intellect  which  follows  the  pursuit  of  art 
without  reference  to  natural  form,  as  among  the  Asiatics : 
here,  I  will  only  trespass  on  your  patience  so  far  as  to  mark 
the  inseparable  connection  between  figure-drawing  and  good 
ornamental  work,  in  the  great  European  schools,  and  all  that 
are  connected  with  them. 

Tell  me,  then,  first  of  all,  what  ornamental  work  is  usually 
put  before  our  students  as  the  type  of  decorative  perfection  ? 
Raphael's  arabesques  ;  are  they  not  ?  "Well,  Raphael  knew  a 
little  about  the  figure,  I  suppose,  before  he  drew  them.  I  do 
not  say  that  I  like  those  arabesques  ;  but  there  are  certain 
qualities  in  them  which  are  inimitable  by  modern  designers  ; 
and  those  qualities  are  just  the  fruit  of  the  master's  figure 
study.  What  is  given  the  student  as  next  to  Raphael's  work? 
Cinquecento  ornament  generally.  Well,  cinquecento  gener- 
ally, with  its  birds,  and  cherubs,  and  wreathed  foliage,  and 
clustered  fruit,  was  the  amusement  of  men  who  habitually  and 
easily  carved  the  figure,  or  painted  it.  All  the  truly  fine 
specimens  of  it  have  figures  or  animals  as  main  parts  of  the 
design. 

"Nay,  but,"  some  anciently  or  medievally  minded  person 
will  exclaim,  "  we  don't  want  to  study  cinquecento.  We  want 
severer,  purer  conventionalism."  "What  will  you  have? 
Egyptian  ornament  ?  Why,  the  whole  mass  of  it  is  made  up 
of  multitudinous  human  figures  in  every  kind  of  action — and 
magnificent  action  ;  their  kings  drawing  their  bows  in  their 
chariots,  their  eheaves  of  arrows  rattling  at  their  shoulders ; 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN.  61 


the  slain  falling  under  them  as  before  a  pestilence  ;  their  cap- 
tors driven  before  them  in  astonied  troops  ;  and  do  you  ex- 
pect to  imitate  Egyptian  ornament  without  knowing  how  to 
draw  the  human  figure  ?  Nay,  but  you  will  take  Christian 
ornament — purest  mediaeval  Christian — thirteenth  century  ! 
Yes  :  and  do  you  suppose  you  will  find  the  Christian  less  hu- 
man ?  The  least  natural  and  most  purely  conventional  orna- 
ment of  the  Gothic  schools  is  that  of  their  painted  glass  ;  and 
do  you  suppose  painted  glass,  in  the  fine  times,  was  ever 
wrought  without  figures  ?  We  have  got  into  the  way,  among 
our  other  modern  wretchednesses,  of  trying  to  make  windows 
of  leaf  diapers,  and  of  strips  of  twisted  red  and  yellow  bands, 
looking  like  the  patterns  of  currant  jelly  on  the  top  of  Christ- 
mas cakes  ;  but  every  casement  of  old  glass  contained  a  saint's 
history.  The  windows  of  Bourges,  Chartres,  or  Rouen  have 
ten,  fifteen,  or  twenty  medallions  in  each,  and  each  medallion 
contains  two  figures  at  least,  often  six  or  seven,  representing 
every  event  of  interest  in  the  history  of  the  saint  whose  life  is 
in  question.  Nay,  but,  you  say  those  figures  are  rude  and 
quaint,  and  ought  not  to  be  imitated.  Why,  so  is  the  leafage 
rude  and  quaint,  yet  you  imitate  that.  The  coloured  border 
pattern  of  geranium  or  ivy  leaf  is  not  one  whit  better  drawn, 
or  more  like  geraniums  and  ivy,  than  the  figures  are  like  fig- 
ures ;  but  you  call  the  geranium  leaf  idealized — why  don't  you 
call  the  figures  so  ?  The  fact  is,  neither  are  idealized,  but 
both  are  coventionalized  on  the  same  principles,  and  in  the 
same  way  ;  and  if  }tou  Avant  to  learn  how  to  treat  the  leafage, 
the  only  way  is  to  learn  first  how  to  treat  the  figure.  And 
you  may  soon  test  your  powers  in  this  respect.  Those  old 
workmen  were  not  afraid  of  the  most  familiar  subjects.  The 
windows  of  Chartres  were  presented  by  the  trades  of  the 
town,  and  at  the  bottom  of  each  window  is  a  representation 
of  the  proceedings  of  the  tradesmen  at  the  business  which  en- 
abled them  to  pay  for  the  window.  There  are  smiths  at  the 
forge,  curriers  at  their  hides,  tanners  looking  into  their  pits, 
mercers  selling  goods  over  the  counter — all  made  into  beauti- 
ful medallions.  Therefore,  whenever  you  want  to  know 
whether  you  have  got  any  real  power  of  composition  or  adap- 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


tat  inn  in  ornament,  don't  be  content  with  sticking  leaves  to- 
gether by  the  ends, — anybody  can  do  that ;  but  try  to  conven- 
tionalize a  butcher's  or  a  greengrocer's,  with  Saturday  night 
customers  buying  cabbage  and  beef.  That  will  tell  you  if  you 
can  design  or  not. 

I  can  fancy  your  losing  patience  with  me  altogether  just 
now.  "  We  asked  this  fellow  down  to  tell  our  workmen  how 
to  make  shawls,  and  he  is  only  trying  to  teach  them  how  to 
caricature."  But  have  a  little  patience  with  me,  and  examine, 
after  I  have  done,  a  little  for  yourselves  into  the  history  of  or- 
namental art,  and  you  will  discover  why  I  do  this,  You  will 
discover,  I  repeat,  that  all  great  ornamental  art  whatever  is 
founded  on  the  effort  of  the  workman  to  draw  the  figure,  and, 
in  the  best  schools,  to  draw  all  that  he  saw  about  him  in  liv- 
ing nature.  The  best  art  of  pottery  is  acknowledged  to  be 
that  of  Greece,  and  all  the  power  of  design  exhibited  in  it, 
down  to  the  merest  zigzag,  arises  primarily  from  the  workman 
having  been  forced  to  outline  nymphs  and  knights  ;  from  those 
helmed  and  draped  figures  he  holds  his  power.  Of  Egyptian 
ornament  I  have  just  spoken.  You  have  everything  given 
there  that  the  workman  saw;  people  of  his  nation  employed 
in  hunting,  fighting,  fishing,  visiting,  making  love,  building, 
cooking— everything  they  did  is  drawn,  magnificently  or  fa- 
miliarly, as  was  needed.  In  Byzantine  ornament,  saints,  or 
animals  which  are  types  of  various  spiritual  power,  are  the 
main  subjects ;  and  from  the  church  down  to  the  piece  of  en- 
amelled metal,  figure, — figure, — figure,  always  principal.  In 
Norman  and  Gothic  work  you  have,  with  ail  their  quiet  saints, 
also  other  much  disquieted  persons,  hunting,  feasting,  fight- 
ing, and  so  on ;  or  whole  hordes  of  animals  racing  after  each 
other.  In  the  Bayeux  tapestry,  Queen  Matilda  gave,  as  well 
as  she  could, — in  many  respects  graphically  enough, — the 
whole  history  of  the  conquest  of  England.  Thence,  as  you 
increase  in  power  of  art,  you  have  more  and  more  finished 
figures,  up  to  the  solemn  sculptures  of  Wells  Cathedral,  or 
the  cherubic  enrichments  of  the  Venetian  Madonna  dei  Mira- 
coli.  Therefore,  I  will  tell  you  fearlessly,  for  I  know  it  is  true, 
you  must  raise  your  workman  up  to  life,  or  you  will  never  get 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN. 


63 


from  liim  one  line  of  well-imagined  conventionalism.  We 
have  at  present  no  good  ornamental  design.  We  can't  have 
it  yet,  and  we  must  be  patient  if  w7e  want  to  have  it.  Do  not 
hope  to  feel  the  effect  of  your  schools  at  once,  but  raise  the 
men  as  high  as  you  can,  and  then  let  them  stoop  as  low  as  you 
need  ;  no  great  man  ever  minds  stooping.  Encourage  the 
students,  in  sketching  accurately  and  continually  from  nature 
anything  that  comes  in  their  way— still  life,  flowers,  animals  ; 
but,  above  all,  figures  ;  and  so  far  as  you  allow  of  airy  differ- 
ence between  an  artist's  training  and  theirs,  let  it  be,  not  in 
wrhat  they  draw,  but  in  the  degree  of  conventionalism  you  re- 
quire in  the  sketch. 

For  my  own  part,  I  should  always  endeavour  to  give  thor- 
ough artistical  training  first ;  but  I  am  not  certain  (the  experi- 
ment being  yet  untried)  what  results  may  be  obtained  by  a 
truly  intelligent  practice  of  conventional  drawing,  such  as  that 
of  the  Egyptians,  Greeks,  or  thirteenth  century  French,  which 
consists  in  the  utmost  possible  rendering  of  natural  form  by 
the  fewest  possible  lines.  The  animal  and  bird  drawing  of 
the  Egyptians  is,  in  their  fine  age,  quite  magnificent  under  its 
conditions  ;  magnificent  in  tw7o  ways— first,  in  keenest  per- 
ception of  the  main  forms  and  facts  in  the  creature  ;  and, 
secondly,  in  the  grandeur  of  line  by  which  their  forms  are 
abstracted  and  insisted  on,  making  every  asp,  ibis,  and  vulture 
a  sublime  spectre  of  asp  or  ibis  or  vulture  power.  The  way 
for  students  to  get  some  of  this  gift  again  {mine  only,  for  I 
believe  the  fulness  of  the  gift  itself  to  be  connected  with  vital 
superstition,  and  with  resulting  intensity  of  reverence  ;  people 
wrere  likely  to  know  something  about  hawks  and  ibises,  when 
to  kill  one  was  to  be  irrevocably  judged  to  death)  is  never  to 
pass  a  day  without  drawing  some  animal  from  the  life,  allow- 
ing themselves  the  fewest  possible  lines  and  colours  to  do  it 
with,  but  resolving  that  whatever  is  characteristic  of  the  ani- 
mal shall  in  some  way  or  other  be  shown.*  I  repeat,  it  can- 
not yet  be  judged  what  results  might  be  obtained  by  a  nobly 
practised  conventionalism  of  this  kind  ;  but,  however  that 

*  Plate  75  in  Vol.  V.  of  Wilkinson's  "  Ancient  Egypt"  will  give  the 
student  an  idea  of  how  to  set  to  work. 


64 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


may  be,  the  first  fact, — the  necessity  of  animal  and  figure 
drawing,  is  absolutely  certain,  and  no  person  who  shrinks 
from  it  will  ever  become  a  great  designer. 

One  great  good  arises  even  from  the  first  step  in  figure 
drawing,  that  it  gets  the  student  quit  at  once  of  the  notion  of 
formal  symmetry.  If  you.  learn  only  to  draw  a  leaf  well,  you 
are  taught  in  some  of  our  schools  to  turn  it  the  other  way, 
opposite  to  itself ;  and  the  two  leaves  set  opposite  ways  are 
called  "  a  design  : "  and  thus  it  is  supposed  possible  to  pro- 
duce ornamentation,  though  you  have  no  more  brains  than  a 
looking-glass  or  a  kaleidoscope  has.  But  if  you  once  learn  to 
draw  the  human  figure,  you  will  find  that  knocking  two  men's 
heads  together  does  not  necessarily  constitute  a  good  design  ; 
nay,  that  it  makes  a  very  bad  design,  or  no  design  at  all ;  and 
you  will  see  at  once  that  to  arrange  a  group  of  two  or  moro 
figures,  you  must,  though  perhaps  it  may  be  desirable  to  bal- 
ance, or  oppose  them,  at  the  same  time  vary  their  attitudes, 
and  make  one,  not  the  reverse  of  the  other,  but  the  compan- 
ion of  the  other. 

I  had  a  somewhat  amusing  discussion  on  this  subject  with 
a  friend,  only  the  other  day  ;  and  one  of  his  retorts  upon  me 
was  so  neatly  put,  and  expresses  so  completely  all  that  can 
either  be  said  or  shown  on  the  opposite  side,  that  it  is  well 
worth  while  giving  it  you  exactly  in  the  form  it  was  sent  to 
me.     My  friend  had  been  maintaining  that  the  essence  of 
ornament  consisted  in  three  things : — contrast,  series,  and 
symmetry.     I  replied  (by  letter)  that  "  none  of  them,  nor 
all  of   them  together,  would  produce 
ornament.     Here  "  — (making  a  ragged 
blot  with  the  back  of  my  pen 
on  the  paper) — "  you  have 
contrast  :  but  it  isn't  orna- 
/        ment :   here,  1,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6," — writing 
the  numerals)  — "  You  have  series  ;  but 
it  isn't  ornament :  and  here," — (sketching  this  figure  at  the 
side) — "  you  have  symmetry  ;  but  it  isn't  ornament." 
My  friend  replied  : — 

"  Your  materials  were  not  ornament,  because  you  did  not 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN  05 

apply  them.  I  send  them  to  you  back,  made  up  into  a  choice 
sporting  neckerchief : 


Symmetrical  figure    .    -  Unit  of  diaper. 

Contrast   Corner  ornaments. 

Series  Border  ornaments. 


Each  figure  is  converted  into  a  harmony  by  being  revolved 
on  its  two  axes,  the  whole  opposed  in  contrasting  series." 

My  answer  was — or  rather  was  to  the  effect  (for  I  must  ex- 
pand it  a  little,  here) — that  his  words,  "because  you  did  not 
apply  them,"  contained  the  gist  of  the  whole  matter  ; — that 
the  application  of  them,  or  any  other  things,  was  precisely 
the  essence  of  design  ;  the  non-application,  or  wrong  applica- 
tion, the  negation  of  design  :  that  his  use  of  the  poor  ma- 
terials was  in  this  case  admirable  ;  and  that  if  he  could 
explain  to  me,  in  clear  words,  the  principles  on  which  he  had 
so  used  them,  he  would  be  doing  a  very  great  service  to  all 
students  of  art. 


GO 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


"Tell  me,  therefore  (I  asked),  these  main  points: 

"  1.  How  did  you  determine  the  number  of  figures  you 
would  put  into  the  neckerchief  ?  Had  there  been  more,  it 
would  have  been  mean  and  ineffective, — a  pepper-and-salt 
sprinkling  of  figures.  Had  there  been  fewer,  it  would  have 
been  monstrous.    How  did  you  fix  the  number  ? 

"  2.  How  did  you  determine  the  breadth  of  the  border  and 
relative  size  of  the  numerals? 

"  3.  Why  are  there  two  lines  outside  of  the  border,  and  one 
only  inside  ?  Why  are  there  no  more  lines  ?  Why  not  three 
and  two,  or  three  and  five  ?  Why  lines  at  all  to  separate  the 
barbarous  figures  ;  and  why,  if  lines  at  all,  not  double  or 
treble  instead  of  single  ? 

"4.  Why  did  you  put  the  double  blots  at  the  corners? 
Why  not  at  the  angles  of  the  chequers, — or  in  the  middle  of 
the  border  ? 

"  It  is  precisely  your  knowing  why  not  to  do  these  things, 
and  why  to  do  just  what  you  have  done,  which  constituted 
your  power  of  design  ;  and  like  all  the  people  I  have  ever 
known  who  had  that  power,  you  are  entirely  unconscious  of 
the  essential  laws  by  which  you  work,  and  confuse  other 
people  by  telling  them  that  the  design  depends  on  symmetry 
and  series,  when,  in  fact,  it  depends  entirely  on  your  own 
sense  and  judgment." 

This  was  the  substance  of  my  last  answer — to  which  (as  I 
knew  beforehand  would  be  the  case)  I  got  no  reply  ;  but  it 
still  remains  to  be  observed  that  with  all  the  skill  and  taste 
(especially  involving  the  architect's  great  trust,  harmony  of 
proportion),  which  my  friend  could  bring  to  bear  on  the  ma- 
terials given  him,  the  result  is  still  only — a  sporting  necker- 
chief— that  is  to  say,  the  materials  addressed,  first,  to  reck* 
lessness,  in  the  shape  of  a  mere  blot ;  then  to  computativeness, 
in  a  series  of  figures  ;  and  then  to  absurdity  and  ignorance, 
in  the  shape  of  an  ill-drawn  caricature — such  materials,  how- 
ever treated,  can  only  wTork  up  into  what  will  please  reckless, 
computative,  and  vulgar  persons, — that  is  to  say,  into  a  sport- 
ing neckerchief.  The  difference  between  this  piece  of  orna- 
mentation and  Correggio's  painting  at  Parma  lies  simply  and 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN.  67 


wholly  in  the  additions  (somewhat  large  ones),  of  truth  and 
of  tenderness  :  in  the  drawing  being  lovely  as  well  as  sym- 
metrical— and  representative  of  realities  as  well  as  agreeably 
disposed.  And  truth,  tenderness,  and  inventive  application 
or  disposition  are  indeed  the  roots  of  ornament — not  contrast, 
nor  symmetry. 

It  ought  yet  farther  to  be  observed,  that  the  nobler  the  ma- 
terials, the  less  their  symmetry  is  endurable,  In  the  present 
case,  the  sense  of  fitness  and  order,  produced  by  the  repeti- 
tion of  the  figures,  neutralizes,  in  some  degree,  their  reckless 
vulgarity  ;  and  is  wholly,  therefore,  beneficent  to  them.  But 
draw  the  figures  better,  and  their  repetition  will  become 
painful.  You  may  harmlessly  balance  a  mere  geometrical 
form,  and  oppose  one  quatrefoil  or  cusp  by  another  exactly 
like  it.  But  put  two  Apollo  Belvideres  back  to  back,  and  you 
will  not  think  the  symmetry  improves  them.  Whenever  the 
materials  of  ornament  are  noble,  they  must  be  various ;  and 
repetition  of  parts  is  either  the  sign  of  utterly  bad,  hopeless, 
and  base  wrork  ;  or  of  the  intended  degradation  of  the  parts 
in  which  such  repetition  is  allowed,  in  order  to  foil  others 
more  noble. 

Such,  then,  are  a  few  of  the  great  principles,  by  the  enforce- 
ment of  which  you  may  hope  to  promote  the  success  of  the 
modern  student  of  design  ;  but  remember,  none  of  these  prin- 
ciples will  be  useful  at  all,  unless  you  understand  them  to  be, 
in  one  profound  and  stern  sense,  useless.* 

That  is  to  say,  unless  you  feel  that  neither  you  nor  I,  nor 
any  one,  can,  in  the  great  ultimate  sense,  teach  anybody  how 
to  make  a  good  design. 

If  designing  could  be  taught,  all  the  wrorld  would  learn  :  as 
all  the  world  reads — or  calculates.  But.  designing  is  not  to  be 
spelled,  nor  summed.  My  men  continually  come  to  me,  in 
my  drawing  class  in  London,  thinking  I  am  to  teach  them 
what  is  instantly  to  enable  them  to  gain  their  bread.  "Please, 
sir,  show  us  how  to  design."    "  Make  designers  of  us."  And 

*  I  shall  endeavour  for  the  future  to  put  my  self-contradictions  in 
short  sentences  and  direct  terms,  in  order  to  save  sagacious  persons  the 
trouble  of  looking  for  them. 


63 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


you,  I  doubt  not,  partly  expect  me  to  tell  you  to-night  how  to 
make  designers  of  your  Bradford  youths.  Alas !  I  could  as 
soon  tell  you  how  to  make  or  manufacture  an  ear  of  wheat,  as 
to  make  a  good  artist  of  any  kind.  I  can  analyze  the  wheat 
very  learnedly  for  you — tell  you  there  is  starch  in  it,  and  car- 
bon, and  silex.  I  can  give  you  starch,  and  charcoal,  and  flint ; 
but  you  are  as  far  from  your  ear  of  wheat  as  you  were  before. 
All  that  can  possibly  be  done  for  any  one  who  wants  ears  of 
wheat  is  to  show  them  where  to  find  grains  of  wheat,  and  how 
to  sow  them,  and  then,  with  patience,  in  Heaven's  time,  the 
ears  will  come — or  will  perhaps  come — ground  and  weather 
permitting.  So  in  this  matter  of  making  artists — first  you 
must  find  your  artist  in  the  grain  ;  then  you  must  plant  him  ; 
fence  and  weed  the  field  about  him  ;  and  with  patience,  ground 
and  weather  permitting,  you  may  get  an  artist  out  of  him— 
not  otherwise.  And  what  I  have  to  speak  to  you  about,  to- 
night, is  mainly  the  ground  and  the  weatner,  it  being  the  first 
and  quite  most  material  question  in  this  matter,  whether  the 
ground  and  weather  of  Bradford,  or  the  ground  and  weather 
of  England  in  general, — suit  wheat. 

And  observe  in  the  outset,  it  is  not  so  much  what  the  pres- 
ent circumstances  of  England  are,  as  what  we  wish  to  make 
them,  that  we  have  to  consider.  If  you  will  tell  me  what  you 
ultimately  intend  Bradford  to  be,  perhaps  I  can  tell  you  what 
Bradford  can  ultimately  produce.  But  you  must  have  your 
minds  clearly  made  up,  and  be  distinct  in  telling  me  what  you 
do  want.  At  present  I  don't  know  what  you  are  aiming  at, 
and  possibly  on  consideration  you  may  feel  some  doubt  whether 
you  know  yourselves.  As  matters  stand,  all  over  England,  as 
soon  as  one  mill  is  at  work,  occupying  two  hundred  hands,  we 
try,  by  means  of  it,  to  set  another  mill  at  work,  occupying  four 
hundred.  That  is  all  simple  and  comprehensive  enough — 
but  what  is  it  to  come  to  ?  How  many  mills  do  we  want  ?  or  do 
we  indeed  want  no  end  of  mills  ?  Let  us  entirely  understand 
each  other  on  this  point  before  we  go  any  farther.  Last  week, 
I  drove  from  Rochdale  to  Bolton  Abbey  ;  quietly,  in  order  to 
see  the  country,  and  certainly  it  was  well  worth  while.  I  never 
went  over  a  more  interesting  twenty  miles  than  those  between 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN.  69 


Rochdale  and  Burnley.  Naturally,  the  valley  has  been  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  in  the  Lancashire  hills  ;  one  of  the  far  away 
solitudes,  full  of  old  shepherd  ways  of  life.  At  this  time  there 
are  not, — I  speak  deliberately,  and  I  believe  quite  literally, — • 
there  are  not,  I  think,  more  than  a  thousand  yards  of  road  to 
be  traversed  anywhere,  without  passing  a  furnace  or  mill. 

Now,  is  that  the  kind  of  thing  you  want  to  come  to  every- 
where ?  Because,  if  it  be,  and  you  tell  me  so  distinctly,  I 
think  I  can  make  several  suggestions  to-night,  and  could  make 
more  if  you  give  me  time,  which  would  materially  advance 
your  object.  The  extent  of  our  operations  at  present  is  more 
or  less  limited  by  the  extent  of  coal  and  ironstone,  but  we 
have  not  yet  learned  to  make  proper  use  of  our  clay.  Over 
the  greater  part  of  England,  south  of  the  manufacturing  dis- 
tricts, there  are  magnificent  beds  of  various  kinds  of  useful 
clay  ;  and  I  believe  that  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  point  out 
modes  of  employing  it  which  might  enable  us  to  turn  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  south  of  England  into  a  brickfield,  as  we  have 
already  turned  nearly  the  whole  of  the  north  into  a  coal-pit. 
I  say  "  nearly"  the  whole,  because,  as  you  are  doubtless  aware, 
there  are  considerable  districts  in  the  south  composed  of  chalk 
renowned  up  to  the  present  time  for  their  downs  and  mutton. 
But,  I  think,  by  examining  carefully  into  the  conceivable  uses 
of  chalk,  we  might  discover  a  quite  feasible  probability  of  turn- 
ing all  the  chalk  districts  into  a  limekiln,  as  we  turn  the  clay 
districts  into  a  brickfield.  There  would  then  remain  nothing 
but  the  mountain  districts  to  be  dealt  with  ;  but,  as  we  have 
not  yet  ascertained  all  the  uses  of  clay  and  chalk,  still  less  have 
we  ascertained  those  of  stone  ;  and  I  think,  by  draining  the 
useless  inlets  of  the  Cumberland,  Welsh,  and  Scotch  lakes, 
and  turning  them,  with  their  rivers,  into  navigable  reservoirs 
and  canals,  there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  working  the  whole 
of  our  mountain  districts  as  a  gigantic  quarry  of  slate  and 
granite,  from  which  all  the  rest  of  the  world  might  be  sup- 
plied with  roofing  and  building  stone. 

Is  this,  then,  what  you  want  ?  You  are  going  straight  at  it 
at  present  ;  and  I  have  only  to  ask  under  what  limitations  I 
am  to  conceive  or  describe  your  final  success  ?    Or  shall  there 


70 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


be  no  limitations  ?  There  are  none  to  your  powers  ;  every 
day  puts  new  machinery  at  your  disposal,  and  increases,  with 
your  capital,  the  vastness  of  your  undertakings.  The  changes 
in  the  state  of  this  country  are  now  so  rapid,  that  it  would  be 
wholly  absurd  to  endeavour  to  lay  down  laws  of  art  education 
for  it  under  its  present  aspect  and  circumstances  ;  and  there- 
fore I  must  necessarily  ask,  how  much  of  it  do  you  seriously 
intend  within  the  next  fifty  years  to  be  coal-pit,  brickfield,  or 
quarry?  For  the  sake  of  distinctness  of  conclusion,  I  will 
suppose  your  success  absolute  :  that  from  shore  to  shore  the 
whole  of  the  island  is  to  be  set  as  thick  with  chimneys  as  the 
masts  stand  in  the  docks  of  Liverpool :  and  there  shall  be  no 
meadows  in  it ;  no  trees  ;  no  gardens ;  only  a  little  corn  grown 
upon  the  housetops,  reaped  and  threshed  by  steam  :  that  you 
do  not  leave  even  room  for  roads,  but  travel  either  over  the 
roofs  of  your  mills,  on  viaducts  ;  or  under  their  floors,  in  tun- 
nels :  that,  the  smoke  having  rendered  the  light  of  the  sun 
unserviceable,  you  work  always  by  the  light  of  your  own  gas  : 
that  no  acre  of  English  ground  shall  be  without  its  shaft  and 
its  engine  ;  and  therefore,  no  spot  of  English  ground  left,  on 
which  it  shall  be  possible  to  stand,  without  a  definite  and  cal- 
culable chance  of  being  blown  off  it,  at  any  moment,  into  small 
pieces. 

Under  these  circumstances,  (if  this  is  to  be  the  future  of 
England,)  no  designing  or  any  other  development  of  beautiful 
art  will  be  possible.  Do  not  vex  your  minds,  nor  waste  your 
money  with  any  thought  or  effort  in  the  matter.  Beautiful 
art  can  only  be  produced  by  people  who  have  beautiful  things 
about  them,  and  leisure  to  look  at  them ;  and  unless  you  pro- 
vide some  elements  of  beauty  for  your  workmen  to  be  sur- 
rounded by,  you  will  find  that  no  elements  of  beauty  can  be 
invented  by  them. 

I  was  struck  forcibly  by  the  bearing  of  this  great  fact  upon 
our  modern  efforts  at  ornamentation  in  an  afternoon  walk, 
last  week,  in  the  suburbs  of  one  of  our  large  manufacturing 
towns.  I  was  thinking  of  the  difference  in  the  effect  upon 
the  designer's  mind,  between  the  scene  which  I  then  came 
upon,  and  the  scene  which  would  have  presented  itself  to  the 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN.  75 


eyes  of  any  designer  of  the  middle  ages,  when  lie  left  his 
workshop).  Just  outside  the  town  I  came  upon  an  old  Eng- 
lish cottage,  or  mansion,  I  hardly  know  which  to  call  it,  set 
close  under  the  hill,  and  beside  the  river,  perhaps  built  some- 
where in  the  Charles's  time,  with  mullioned  windows  and  a 
low  arched  porch  ;  round  which,  in  the  little  triangular  gar- 
den, one  can  imagine  the  family  as  they  used  to  sit  in  old 
summer  times,  the  ripple  of  the  river  heard  faintly  through 
the  sweetbrier  hedge,  and  the  sheep  on  the  far-off  wolds  shin- 
ing in  the  evening  sunlight.  There,  uninhabited  for  many 
and  many  a  year,  it  had  been  left  in  unregarded  havoc  of 
ruin  ;  the  garden-gate  still  swung  loose  to  its  latch  ;  the  gar- 
den, blighted  utterly  into  a  field  of  ashes,  not  even  a  weed 
taking  root  there  ;  the  roof  torn  into  shapeless  rents ;  the 
shutters  hanging  about  the  windows  in  rags  of  rotten  wood  ; 
before  its  gate,  the  stream  which  had  gladdened  it  now  soak- 
ing slowly  by,  black  as  ebony,  and  thick  with  curdling  scum  ; 
the  bank  above  it  trodden  into  unctuous,  sooty  slime  :  far  in 
front  of  it,  between  it  and  the  old  hills,  the  furnaces  of  the 
city  foaming  forth  perpetual  plague  of  sulphurous  darkness  ; 
the  volumes  of  their  storm  clouds  coiling  low  over  a  waste  of 
grassless  fields,  fenced  from  each  other,  not  by  hedges,  but 
by  slabs  of  square  stone,  like  gravestones,  riveted  together 
with  iron. 

That  was  your  scene  for  the  designer's  contemplation  in  his 
afternoon  walk  at  Rochdale.  Now  fancy  what  was  the  scene 
which  presented  itself,  in  his  afternoon  walk,  to  a  designer  of 
the  Gothic  school  of  Pisa — Nino  Pisano,  or  any  of  his  men. 

On  each  side  of  a  bright  river  he  saw  rise  a  line  of  brighter 
palaces,  arched  and  pillared,  and  inlaid  with  deep  red  por- 
phyry, and  with  serpentine  ;  along  the  quays  before  their 
gates  wTere  riding  troops  of  knights,  noble  in  face  and  form, 
dazzling  in  crest  and  shield  ;  horse  and  man  one  labyrinth  of 
quaint  colour  and  gleaming  light — the  purple,  and  silver,  and 
scarlet  fringes  flowing  over  the  strong  limbs  and  clashing 
mail,  like  sea- waves  over  rocks  at  sunset.  Opening  on  each 
side  from  the  river  were  gardens,  courts,  and  cloisters  ;  long 
successions  of  white  pillars  among  wreaths  of  vine  ;  leaping 


72 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


of  fountains  through  buds  of  pomegranate  and  orange  :  and 
still  along  the  garden-paths,  and  under  and  through  the  crim- 
son of  the  pomegranate  shadows,  moving  slowly,  groups  of 
the  fairest  women  that  Italy  ever  saw— fairest,  because  purest 
and  thoughtfullest  ;  trained  in  all  high  knowledge,  as  in  ail 
courteous  art — in  dance,  in  song,  in  sweet  wit,  in  lofty  learn- 
ing, in  loftier  courage,  in  loftiest  love — able  alike  to  cheer,  to 
enchant,  or  save,  the  souls  of  men.  Above  all  this  scenery  of 
perfect  human  life,  rose  dome  and  bell-tower,  burning  with 
white  alabaster  and  gold  ;  beyond  dome  and  bell-tower  the 
slopes  of  mighty  hills,  hoary  with  olive  ;  far  in  the  north, 
above  a  purple  sea  of  peaks  of  solemn  Apennine,  the  clear, 
sharp-cloven  Carrara  mountains  sent  up  their  steadfast  flames 
of  marble  summit  into  amber  sky  ;  the  great  sea  itself, 
scorching  with  expanse  of  light,  stretching  from  their  feet  to 
the  Gorgonian  isles  ;  and  over  all  these,  ever  present,  near  or 
far— seen  through  the  leaves  of  vine,  or  imaged  with  ail  its 
march  of  clouds  in  the  Arno's  stream,  or  set  with  its  depth  of 
blue  close  against  the  golden  hair  and  burning  cheek  of  lady 
and  knight, — that  untroubled  and  sacred  sky,  which  was  to  all 
men,  in  those  days  of  innocent  faith,  indeed  the  unquestioned 
abode  of  spirits,  as  the  earth  was  of  men  ;  and  which  opened 
straight  through  its  gates  of  cloud  and  veils  of  dew  into  the 
awfulness  of  the  eternal  world  ; — a  heaven  in  which  every 
cloud  that  passed  was  literally  the  chariot  of  an  angel,  and 
every  ray  of  its  Evening  and  Morning  streamed  from  the 
throne  of  God. 

What  think  you  of  that  for  a  school  of  design  ? 

I  do  not  bring  this  contrast  before  you  as  a  ground  of 
hopelessness  in  our  task ;  neither  do  I  look  for  any  possible 
renovation  of  the  Eepublic  of  Pisa,  at  Bradford,  in  the  nine- 
teenth century ;  but  I  put  it  before  you  in  order  that  you 
may  be  aware  precisely  of  the  kind  of  difficulty  you  have  to 
meet,  and  may  then  consider  with  yourselves  how  far  you  can 
meet  it.  To  men  surrounded  by  the  depressing  and  monot- 
onous circumstances  of  English  manufacturing  life,  depend 
upon  it,  design  is  simply  impossible.  This  is  the  most  dis- 
tinct of  all  the  experiences  I  have  had  in  dealing  with  the 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN.  73 


modern  workman.  He  is  intelligent  and  ingenious  in  the 
highest  degree— subtle  in  touch  and  keen  in  sight:  but  he 
is,  generally  speaking,  wholly  destitute  of  designing  power. 
And  if  you  want  to  give  him  the  power,  you  must  give  him 
the  materials,  and  put  him  in  the  circumstances  for  it.  De- 
sign is  not  the  offspring  of  idle  fancy  :  it  is  the  studied  result 
of  accumulative  observation  and  delightful  habit.  Without 
observation  and  experience,  no  design — without  peace  and 
pleasurableness  in  occupation,  no  design — and  all  the  lectur- 
ings,  and  teachings,  and  prizes,  and  principles  of  art,  in  the 
world,  are  of  no  use,  so  long  as  you  don't  surround  your  men 
with  happy  influences  and  beautiful  things.  It  is  impossible 
for  them  to  have  right  ideas  about  colour,  unless  they  see  the 
lovely  colours  of  nature  unspoiled  ;  impossible  for  them  to 
supply  beautiful  incident  and  action  in  their  ornament,  unless 
they  see  beautiful  incident  and  action  in  the  world  about  them. 
Inform  their  minds,  refine  their  habits,  and  you  form  and 
refine  their  designs  ;  but  keep  them  illiterate,  uncomfortable, 
and  in  the  midst  of  unbeautiful  things,  and  whatever  they  do 
will  still  be  spurious,  vulgar,  and  valueless. 

I  repeat,  that  I  do  not  ask  you  nor  wish  you  to  build  a  new 
Pisa  for  them.  We  don't  want  either  the  life  or  the  decora- 
tions of  the  thirteenth  century  back  again  ;  and  the  circum- 
stances with  which  you  must  surround  your  workmen  are 
those  simply  of  happy  modern  English  life,  because  the  de- 
signs you  have  now  to  ask  for  from  your  workmen  are  such 
as  will  make  modern  English  life  beautiful.  All  that  gor- 
geousness  of  the  middle  ages,  beautiful  as  it  sounds  in 
description,  noble  as  in  many  respects  it  was  in  reality,  had, 
nevertheless,  for  foundation  and  for  end,  nothing  but  the 
pride  of  life — the  pride  of  the  so-called  superior  classes ;  a 
pride  which  supported  itself  by  violence  and  robbery,  and  led 
in  the  end  to  the  destruction  both  of  the  arts  themselves  and 
the  States  in  which  they  flourished. 

The  great  lesson  of  history  is,  that  all  the  fine  arts  hitherto 
— having  been  supported  by  the  selfish  power  of  the  noblesse, 
and  never  having  extended  their  range  to  the  comfort  or  the 
relief  of  the  mass  of  the  people — the  arts,  I  say,  thus  prac- 


74 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


tised,  and  thus  matured,  have  only  accelerated  the  ruin  of  the 
States  they  adorned  ;  and  at  the  moment  when,  in  any  king- 
dom, you  point  to  the  triumphs  of  its  greatest  artists,  you 
point  also  to  the  determined  hour  of  the  kingdom  s  decline. 
The  names  of  great  painters  are  like  passing  bells  :  in  the 
name  of  Velasquez,  you  hear  sounded  the  fall  of  Spain  ;  in 
in  the  name  of  Titian,  that  of  Venice ;  in  the  name  of 
Leonardo,  that  of  Milan  ;  in  •  the  name  of  Raphael,  that  of 
Rome.  And  there  is  profound  justice  in  this  ;  for  in  propor- 
tion to  the  nobleness  of  the  power  is  the  guilt  of  its  use  for 
purposes  vain  or  vile  ;  and  hitherto  the  greater  the  art,  the 
more  surely  has  it  been  used,  and  used  solely,  for  the  decora- 
tion of  pride, *  or  the  provoking  of  sensuality.  Another  course 
lies  open  to  us.  We  may  abandon  the  hope — or  if  you  like 
the  words  better — wTe  may  disdain  the  temptation,  of  the 
pomp  and  grace  of  Italy  in  her  youth.  For  us  there  can  be 
no  more  the  throne  of  marble — for  us  no  more  the  vault  of 
gold — but  for  us  there  is  the  loftier  and  lovelier  privilege  of 
bringing  the  power  and  charm  of  art  within  the  reach  of  the 
humble  and  the  poor  ;  and  as  the  magnificence  of  past  ages 
failed  by  its  narrowness  and  its  pride,  ours  may  prevail  and 
continue,  by  its  universality  and  its  lowliness. 

And  thus,  between  the  picture  of  too  laborious  England, 
which  we  imagined  as  future,  and  the  picture  of  too  luxurious 
Italy,  which  we  remember  in  the  past,  there  may  exist — there 
wrill  exist,  if  we  do  our  duty — an  intermediate  condition, 
neither  oppressed  by  labour  nor  wasted  in  vanity — the  con- 
dition of  a  peaceful  and  thoughtful  temperance  in  aims,  and 
acts,  and  arts. 

We  are  about  to  enter  upon  a  period  of  our  world's  history 
in  which  domestic  life,  aided  by  the  arts  of  peace,  wall  slowly, 
but  at  last  entirely,  supersede  public  life  and  the  arts  of  war. 
For  our  own  England,  she  wall  not,  I  believe,  be  blasted 
throughout  with  furnaces  ;  nor  will  she  be  encumbered  writh 
palaces.  I  irust  she  will  keep  her  green  fields,  her  cottages, 
and  her  homes  of  middle  life  ;  but  these  ought  to  be,  and  I 

*  Whether  religious  or  profane  pride, —chapel  or  banqueting  room,— 
is  no  matter. 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN 


75 


trust  will  be  enriched  with  a  useful,  truthful,  substantial  form 
of  art.  We  want  now  no  more  feasts  of  the  gods,  nor  martyr- 
doms of  the  saints  ;  we  have  no  need  of  sensuality,  no  place 
for  superstition,  or  for  costly  insolence.  Let  us  have  learned 
and  faithful  historical  painting— touching  and  thoughtful  rep- 
resentations of  human  nature,  in  dramatic  painting  ;  poetical 
and  familiar  renderings  of  natural  objects  and  of  landscape  *, 
and  rational,  deeply-felt  realizations  of  the  events  which  are 
the  subjects  of  our  religious  faith.  And  let  these  things  we 
want,  as  far  as  possible,  be  scattered  abroad  and  made  ac- 
cessible to  all  men. 

So  also,  in  manufacture  :  we  require  work  substantial 
rather  than  rich  in  make  ;  and  refined,  rather  than  splendid 
in  design.  Your  stuffs  need  not  be  such  as  would  catch  the 
eye  of  a  duchess  ;  but  they  should  be  such  as  may  at  once 
serve  the  need,  and  refine  the  taste,  of  a  cottager.  The  pre- 
vailing error  in  English  dress,  especially  among  the  lower 
orders,  is  a  tendency  to  flimsiness  and  gaudiness,  arising 
mainly  from  the  awkward  imitation  of  their  superiors.*  It 
should  be  one  of  the  first  objects  of  all  manufacturers  to  pro- 
duce stuffs  not  only  beautiful  and  quaint  in  design,  but  also 
adapted  for  every-day  service,  and  decorous  in  humble  and 
secluded  life.  And  you  must  remember  always  that  your 
business,  as  manufacturers,  is  to  form  the  market,  as  much  as 

*  If  their  superiors  would  give  them  simplicity  and  economy  to 
imitate,  it  would,  in  the  issue,  be  well  for  themselves,  as  well  as  for 
those  whom  they  guide.  The  typhoid  fever  of  passion  for  dress,  and 
all  other  display,  which  has  struck  the  upper  classes  of  Europe  at  this 
time,  is  one  of  the  most  dangerous  political  elements  we  have  to  deal 
with.  Its  wickedness  I  have  shown  elsewhere  (Polit.  Economy  of  Art, 
p.  62,  et  seq.) ;  but  its  wickedness  is,  in  the  minds  of  most  persons,  a 
matter  of  no  importance.  I  wish  I  had  time  also  to  show  them  its 
danger.  I  cannot  enter  here  into  political  investigation  ;  but  this  is  a 
certain  fact,  that  the  wasteful  and  vain  expenses  at  present  indulged  in 
by  the  upper  classes  are  hastening  the  advance  of  republicanism  more 
than  any  other  element  of  modern  change.  No  agitators,  no  clubs,  no 
epidemical  errors,  ever  were,  or  will  be,  fatal  to  social  order  in  any  na- 
tion. Nothing  but  the  guilt  of  the  upper  classes,  wanton,  accumulated, 
reckless,  and  merciless,  ever  overthrows  them.  Of  such  guilt  they  have 
now  much  to  answer  for — let  them  look  to  it  in  time. 


70 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


to  supply  it.  If,  in  shortsighted  and  reckless  eagerness  for 
wealth,  you  catch  at  every  humour  of  the  populace  as  it  shapes 
itself  into  momentary  demand — if,  in  jealous  rivalry  with 
neighbouring  States,  or  with  other  producers,  you  try  to 
attract  attention  by  singularities,  novelties,  and  gaudinesses — 
to  make  every  design  an  advertisement,  and  pilfer  every  idea 
of  a  successful  neighbour's,  that  you  may  insidiously  imitate 
it,  or  pompously  eclipse — no  good  design  will  ever  be  possi- 
ble to  you,  or  perceived  by  you.  You  may,  by  accident, 
snatch  the  market ;  or,  by  energy,  command  it  ;  you  may 
obtain  the  confidence  of  the  public,  and  cause  the  ruin  of 
opponent  houses  ;  or  you  may,  with  equal  justice  of  fortune, 
be  ruined  by  them.  But  whatever  happens  to  you,  this,  at 
least,  is  certain,  that  the  whole  of  your  life  will  have  been 
spent  in  corrupting  public  taste  and  encouraging  public  ex- 
travagance. Every  preference  you  have  won  by  gaudiness 
must  have  been  based  on  the  purchasers  vanity  ;  every  de- 
mand you  have  created  by  novelty  has  fostered  in  the  con- 
sumer a  habit  of  discontent ;  and  when  you  retire  into  in- 
active life,  you  may,  as  a  subject  of  consolation  for  your 
declining  years,  reflect  that  precisely  according  to  the  extent 
of  your  past  operations,  your  life  has  been  successful  in  re- 
tarding the  arts,  tarnishing  the  virtues,  and  confusing  the 
manners  of  your  country. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  you  resolve  from  the  first  that, 
so  far  as  you  can  ascertain  or  discern  what  is  best,  you  will 
produce  what  is  best,  on  an  intelligent  consideration  of  the 
probable  tendencies  and  possible  tastes  of  the  people  whom  you 
supply,  you  may  literally  become  more  influential  for  all  kinds 
of  good  than  many  lecturers  on  art,  or  many  treatise-writers 
on  morality.  Considering  the  materials  dealt  with,  and  the 
crude  state  of  art  knowledge  at  the  time,  I  do  not  know  that 
any  more  wide  or  effective  influence  in  public  taste  was  ever 
exercised  than  that  of  the  Staffordshire  manufacture  of  pottery 
under  William  Wedgwood,  and  it  only  rests  with  the  manu- 
facturer in  every  other  business  to  determine  whether  he  will, 
in  like  manner,  make  his  wares  educational  instruments,  or 
mere  drugs  of  the  market.    You  all  should  be,  in  a  certain 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE, 


77 


sense,  authors  :  you  must,  indeed,  first  catch  the  public  eye, 
as  an  author  must  the  public  ear ;  but  once  gain  your  audi- 
ence, or  observance,  and  as  it  is  in  the  writer's  power  thence- 
forward to  publish  what  will  educate  as  it  amuses — so  it  is  in 
yours  to  publish  what  will  educate  as  it  adorns.  Nor  is  this 
surely  a  subject  of  poor  ambition.  I  hear  it  said  continually 
that  men  are  too  ambitious:  alas!  io  me,  it  seems  they  are 
never  enough  ambitious.  How  many  are  content  to  be  merely 
the  thriving  merchants  of  a  state,  when  they  might  be  its 
guides,  counsellors,  and  rulers — wielding  powers  of  subtle  but 
gigantic  beneficence,  in  restraining  its  follies  while  they  sup- 
plied its  wants.  Let  such  duty,  such  ambition,  be  once  ac- 
cepted in  their  fulness,  and  the  best  glory  of  European  art 
and  of  European  manufacture  may  yet  be  to  come.  The 
paintings  of  Raphael  and  of  Buonaroti  gave  force  to  the  false- 
hoods of  superstition,  and  majesty  to  the  imaginations  of  sin  ; 
but  the  arts  of  England  may  have,  for  their  task,  to  inform 
the  soul  with  truth,  and  touch  the  heart  with  compassion. 
The  steel  of  Toledo  and  the  silk  of  Genoa  did  but  give  strength 
to  oppression  and  lustre  to  pride  :  let  it  be  for  the  furnace 
and  for  the  loom  of  England,  as  they  have  already  richly 
earned,  still  more  abundantly  to  bestow,  comfort  on  the  indi- 
gent, civilization  on  the  rude,  and  to  dispense,  through  the 
peaceful  homes  of  nations,  the  grace  and  the  preciousness  of 
simple  adornment,  and  useful  possession. 


LECTURE  IV. 

INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 

An  Address  Delivered  to  the  Members  of  the  Architectural 
Association,  in  Lyons  Inn  Hall,  1857. 

If  we  were  to  be  asked  abruptly,  and  required  to  answer 
briefly,  what  qualities  chiefly  distinguish  great  artists  from 
feeble  artists,  we  should  answer,  I  suppose,  first,  their  sen- 
sibility and  tenderness ;  secondly,  their  imagination  ;  and 


7S 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


thirdly,  their  industry.  Some  of  us  might,  perhaps,  doubt 
the  justice  of  attaching  so  much  importance  to  this  last  char- 
acter, because  we  have  all  known  clever  men  who  were  indo- 
lent, and  dull  men  who  were  industrious.  But  though  you 
may  have  known  clever  men  who  were  indolent,  you  never 
knew  a  great  man  who  was  so  ;  and,  during  such  investigation 
as  I  have  been  able  to  give  to  the  lives  of  the  artists  whose 
works  are  in  all  points  noblest,  no  fact  ever  looms  'so  large 
upon  me — no  law  remains  so  steadfast  in  the  universality  of 
its  application,  as  the  fact  and  law  that  they  are  all  great 
workers  :  nothing  concerning  them  is  matter  of  more  aston- 
ishment than  the  quantity  they  have  accomplished  in  the 
given  length  of  their  life  ;  and  when  I  hear  a  young  man 
spoken  of,  as  giving  promise  of  high  genius,  the  first  question 
I  ask  about  him  is  always — 
Does  he  work  ? 

But  though  this  quality  of  industry  is  essential  to  an  artist, 
it  does  not  in  anywise  make  an  artist ;  many  people  are  busy, 
whose  doings  are  little  worth.  Neither  does  sensibility  make 
an  artist ;  since,  as  I  hope,  many  can  feel  both  strongly  and 
nobly,  who  yet  care  nothing  about  art.  But  the  gifts  which 
distinctively  mark  the  artist — without  which  he  must  be  feeble 
in  life,  forgotten  in  death— with  which  he  may  become  one  of 
the  shakers  of  the  earth,  and  one  of  the  signal  lights  in  heaven 
— are  those  of  sympathy  and  imagination.  I  will  not  occupy 
your  time,  nor  incur  the  risk  of  your  dissent,  by  endeavouring 
to  give  any  close  definition  of  this  last  word.  We  all  have  a 
general  and  sufficient  idea  of  imagination,  and  of  its  work 
with  our  hands  and  in  our  hearts  :  we  understand  it,  I  sup- 
pose, as  the  imaging  or  picturing  of  new  things  in  our 
thoughts  ;  and  we  always  show  an  involuntary  respect  for  this 
power,  wherever  we  can  recognize  it,  acknowledging  it  to  be 
a  greater  power  than  manipulation,  or  calculation,  or  observa- 
tion, or  any  other  human  faculty.  If  we  see  an  old  woman 
spinning  at  the  fireside,  and  distributing  her  thread  dexter* 
ously  from  the  distaff,  we  respect  her  for  her  manipulation — 
if  we  ask  her  how  much  she  expects  to  make  in  a  year,  and. 
she  answers  quickly,  we  respect  her  for  her  calculation — if 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


75 


she  is  watching  at  the  same  time  that  none  of  her  grand- 
children fall  into  the  tire,  we  respect  her  for  her  observation 
— yet  for  all  this  she  may  still  be  a  commonplace  old  woman 
enough.  But  if  she  is  all  the  time  telling  her  grandchildren 
a  fairy  tale  out  of  her  head,  we  praise  her  for  her  imagination, 
and  say,  she  must  be  a  rather  remarkable  old  woman. 

Precisely  in  like  manner,  if  an  architect  does  his  working** 
drawing  well,  we  praise  him  for  his  manipulation — if  he  keeps 
closely  within  his  contract,  we  praise  him  for  his  honest  arith- 
metic— if  he  looks  well  to  the  laying  of  his  beams,  so  that 
nobody  shall  drop  through  the  floor,  we  praise  him  for  his 
observation.  But  he  must,  somehow,  tell  us  a  fairy  tale  out 
of  his  head  beside  all  this,  else  we  cannot  praise  him  for  his 
imagination,  nor  speak  of  him  as  we  did  of  the  old  woman,  as 
being  in  any  wise  out  of  the  common  way,  a  rather  remarkable 
architect.  It  seemed  to  me,  therefore,  as  if  it  might  interest 
you  to-night,  if  we  were  to  consider  together  what  fairy  tales 
are,  in  and  by  architecture,  to  be  told — what  there  is  for  you 
to  do  in  this  severe  art  of  yours  "  out  of  your  heads,"  as  well 
as  by  your  hands. 

Perhaps  the  first  idea  which  a  young  architect  is  apt  to  be 
allured  by,  as  a  head-problem  in  these  experimental  days,  is 
its  being  incumbent  upon  him  to  invent  a  c<  new  style"  worthy 
of  modern  civilization  in  general,  and  of  England  in  particu- 
lar ;  a  style  worthy  of  our  engines  and  telegraphs  ;  as  expan- 
sive as  steam,  and  as  sparkling  as  electricity. 

But,  if  there  are  any  of  my  hearers  who  have  been  im- 
pressed with  this  sense  of  inventive  duty,  may  I  ask  them 
first,  whether  their  plan  is  that  every  inventive  architect 
among  us  shall  invent  a  new  style  for  himself,  and  have  a 
county  set  aside  for  his  conceptions,  or  a  province  for  his 
practice  ?  Or,  must  every  architect  invent  a  little  piece  of  the 
new  style,  and  all  put  it  together  at  last  like  a  dissected  map? 
And  if  so,  when  the  new  style  is  invented,  what  is  to  be  done 
next  ?  I  will  grant  you  this  Eldorado  of  imagination — but 
can  you  have  more  than  one  Columbus  ?  Or,  if  you  sail  in 
company,  and  divide  the  prize  of  your  discovery  and  the  hon- 
our thereof,  who  is  to  come  after  you  clustered  Columbuses  ? 


30 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


to  what  fortunate  islands  of  style  are  your  architectural  && 

scendants  to  sail,  avaricious  of  new  lands?  When  our  desired 
style  is  invented,  will  not  the  best  we  can  all  do  be  simply— 
to  build  in  it  ? — and  cannot  you  now  do  that  in  styles  that  are 
known?  Observe,  I  grant,  for  the  sake  of  your  argument 
what  perhaps  many  of  you  know  that  I  would  not  grant  other- 
wise— than  a  new  style  can  be  invented.  I  grant  you  not  only 
this,  but  that  it  shall  be  wholly  different  from  any  that  was 
ever  practised  before.  We  will  suppose  that  capitals  are  to 
be  at  the  bottom  of  pillars  instead  of  the  top  ;  and  that  but- 
tresses shall  be  on  the  tops  of  pinnacles  instead  of  at  the  bot- 
tom ;  that  you  roof  your  apertures  with  stones  which  shall 
neither  be  arched  nor  horizontal  ;  and  that  you  compose  your 
decoration  of  lines  which  shall  neither  be  crooked  nor  straight. 
The  furnace  and  the  forge  shall  be  at  your  service  :  you  shall 
draw  out  your  plates  of  glass  and  beat  out  your  bars  of  iron 
till  you  have  encompassed  us  all, — if  your  style  is  of  the  prac- 
tical kind, — with  endless  perspective  of  black  skeleton  and 
blinding  square, — or  if  your  style  is  to  be  of  the  ideal  kind — 
you  shall  wreathe  your  streets  with  ductile  leafage,  and  roof 
them  with  variegated  crystal — you  shall  put,  if  you  will,  all 
London  under  one  blazing  dome  of  many  colours  that  shall 
light  the  clouds  round  it  with  its  flashing,  as  far  as  to  the  sea. 
And  still,  I  ask  you,  What  after  this  ?  Do  you  suppose  those 
imaginations  of  yours  will  ever  lie  down  there  asleep  beneath 
the  shade  of  your  iron  leafage,  or  within  the  coloured  light  of 
your  enchanted  dome?  Not  so.  Those  souls,  and  fancies, 
and  ambitions  of  yours,  are  wholly  infinite  ;  and,  whatever 
may  be  done  by  others,  you  will  still  want  to  do  something 
for  yourselves  ;  if  you  cannot  rest  content  with  Palladio,  nei- 
ther will  you  with  Paxton  :  all  the  metal  and  glass  that  ever 
were  melted  have  not  so  much  weight  in  them  as  will  clog  the 
wings  of  one  human  spirit's  aspiration. 

If  you  will  think  over  this  quietly  by  yourselves,  and  can 
get  the  noise  out  of  your  ears  of  the  perpetual,  empty,  id]e, 
incomparably  idiotic  talk  about  the  necessity  of  some  novelty 
in  architecture,  you  will  soon  see  that  the  very  essence  of  a 
Style,  properly  so  called,  is  that  it  should  be  practised  for 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


81 


ages,  and  applied  to  all  purposes  ;  and  that  so  long  as  any 
given  style  is  in  practice,  all  that  is  left  for  individual  imagina- 
tion to  accomplish  must  be  within  the  scope  of  that  style,  not 
in  the  invention  of  a  new  one.  If  there  are  any  here,  there- 
fore, who  hope  to  obtain  celebrity  by  the  invention  of  some 
strange  way  of  building  which  must  convince  all  Europe  into 
its  adoption,  to  them,  for  the  moment,  I  must  not  be  under" 
stood  to  address  myself,  but  only  to  those  who  would  be  con- 
tent with  that  degree  of  celebrity  which  an  artist  may  enjoy 
who  works  in  the  manner  of  his  forefathers  ; — which  the 
builder  of  Salisbury  Cathedral  might  enjoy  in  England,  though 
he  did  not  invent  Gothic  ;  and  which  Titian  might  enjoy  at 
Venice,  though  he  did  not  invent  oil  painting.  Addressing 
myself  then  to  those  humbler,  but  wiser,  or  rather,  ovAy  wise 
students  who  are  content  to  avail  themselves  of  some  system 
of  building  already  understood,  let  us  consider  together  what 
room  for  the  exercise  of  the  imagination  may  be  left  to  us 
under  such  conditions.  And,  first,  I  suppose  it  will  be  said, 
or  thought,  that  the  architect's  principal  field  for  exercise  of 
his  invention  must  be  in  the  disposition  of  lines,  mouldings, 
and  masses,  in  agreeable  proportions.  Indeed,  if  you  adopt 
some  styles  of  architecture,  you  cannot  exercise  invention  in 
any  other  way.  And  I  admit  that  it  requires  genius  and 
special  gift  to  do  this  rightly.  Not  by  rule,  nor  by  study,  can 
the  gift  of  graceful  proportionate  design  be  obtained  ;  only 
by  the  intuition  of  genius  can  so  much  as  a  single  tier  of 
facade  be  beautifully  arranged  ;  and  the  man  has  just  cause 
for  pride,  as  far  as  our  gifts  can  ever  be  a  cause  for  pride, 
who  finds  himself  able,  in  a  design  of  his  own,  to  rival  even 
the  simplest  arrangement  of  parts  in  one  by  Sanmicheli, 
Inigo  Jones,  or  Christopher  Wren. 

Invention,  then,  and  genius  being  granted,  as  necessary  to 
accomplish  this,  let  me  ask  you,  What,  after  all,  with  this 
special  gift  and  genius,  you  ham  accomplished,  when  you  have 
arranged  the  lines  of  a. building  beautifully  ? 

In  the  first  place  you  will  not,  I  think,  tell  me  that  the 
beauty  there  attained  is  of  a  touching  or  pathetic  kind.  A 
well-disposed  group  of  notes  in  music  will  make  you  some- 


82 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


times  weep  and  sometimes  laugh.  You  can  express  the  depth 
of  all  affections  by  those  dispositions  of  sound  :  you  can  give 
courage  to  the  soldier,  language  to  the  lover,  consolation  to 
the  mourner,  more  joy  to  the  joyful,  more  humility  to  the 
devout.  Can  you  do  as  much  by  your  group  of  lines  ?  Do 
you  suppose  the  front  of  Whitehall,  a  singularly  beautiful  one, 
ever  inspires  the  two  Horse  Guards,  during  the  hour  they  sit 
opposite  to  it,  with  military  ardour?  Do  you  think  that  the 
lovers  in  our  London  walk  down  to  the  front  of  Whitehall  for 
consolation  when  mistresses  are  unkind  ;  or  that  any  person 
wavering  in  duty,  or  feeble  in  faith,  was  ever  confirmed  ill 
purpose  or  in  creed  by  the  pathetic  appeal  of  those  har- 
monious architraves  ?  You  will  not  say  so.  Then,  if  they 
cannot  touch,  or  inspire,  or  comfort  any  one,  can  your  archi- 
tectural proportions  amuse  any  one  ?  Christmas  is  just  over  ; 
you  have  doubtless  been  at  many  merry  parties  during  the 
period.  Can  3rou  remember  any  in  which  architectural  pro- 
portions contributed  to  the  entertainment  of  the  evening? 
Proportions  of  notes  in  music  were,  I  am  sure,  essential  to 
your  amusement ;  the  setting  of  flowers  in  hair,  and  of  ribands 
on  dresses,  were  also  subjects  of  frequent  admiration  with 
you,  not  inessential  to  your  happiness.  Among  the  juvenile 
members  of  your  society  the  proportion  of  currants  in  cake, 
and  of  sugar  in  comfits,  became  subjects  of  acute  interest ; 
and,  when  such  proportions  were  harmonious,  motives  also  of 
gratitude  to  cook  and  to  confectioner.  But  did  you  ever  see 
either  young  or  old  amused  by  the  architrave  of  the  door  ? 
Or  otherwise  interested  in  the  proportions  of  the  room  than 
as  they  admitted  more  or  fewer  friendly  faces  ?  Nay,  if  all 
the  amusement  that  there  is  in  the  best  proportioned  architect- 
ure of  London  could  be  concentrated  into  one  evening,  and 
you  were  to  issue  tickets  for  nothing  to  this  great  propor- 
tional entertainment ; — how  do  you  think  it  would  stand  be- 
tween you  and  the  Drury  pantomine? 

You  are;  then,  remember,  granted  to  be  people  of  genius — 
great  and  admirable  ;  and  you  devote  your  lives  to  your  art, 
but  you  admit  that  you  cannot  comfort  anybody,  you  cannot 
encourage  anybody,  you  cannot  improve  anybody,  and  you 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


83 


cannot  amuse  anybody.  I  proceed  then  farther  to  ask,  Can 
you  inform  anybody  ?  Many  sciences  cannot  be  considered 
as  highly  touching  or  emotional ;  nay,  perhaps  not  specially 
amusing;  scientific  men  may  sometimes,  in  these  respects, 
stand  on  the  same  ground  with  you.  As  far  as  we  can  judge 
by  the  results  of  the  late  war,  science  helps  our  soldiers  about 
as  much  as  the  front  of  Whitehall ;  and  at  the  Christmas  par- 
ties, the  children  wanted  no  geologists  to  tell  them  about  the 
behaviour  of  bears  and  dragons  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time. 
Still,  your  man  of  science  teaches  you  something ;  he  may  be 
dull  at  a  party,  or  helpless  in  a  battle,  he  is  not  always  thab ; 
but  he  can  give  you,  at  all  events,  knowledge  of  noble  facts, 
and  open  to  you  the  secrets  of  the  earth  and  air.  Will  your 
architectural  proportions  do  as  much  ?  Your  genius  is  granted, 
and  your  life  is  given,  and  what  do  you  teach  us? — Nothing, 
I  believe,  from  one  end  of  that  life  to  the  other,  but  that  two 
and  two  make  four,  and  that  one  is  to  two  as  three  is  to  six. 

You  cannot,  then,  it  is  admitted,  comfort  any  one,  serve  or 
amuse  any  one,  nor  teach  any  one.  Finally,  I  ask,  Can  you  be  of 
Use  to  any  one  ?  ' '  Yes, "  you  reply ;  "  certainly  we  are  of  some  use 
* — wTe  architects — in  a  climate  like  this,  where  it  always  rains/' 
You  are  of  use  certainly  ;  but,  pardon  me,  only  as  builders — 
not  as  proportionalists.  We  are  not  talking  of  building  as  a 
protection,  but  only  of  that  special  work  which  your  genius  is 
to  do  ;  not  of  building  substantial  and  comfortable  houses 
like  Mr.  Cubitt,  but  of  putting  beautiful  facades  on  them  like 
Inigo  Jones.  And,  again,  I  ask — Are  you  of  use  to  any  one  ? 
Will  your  proportions  of  the  facade  heal  the  sick,  or  clothe 
the  naked?  Supposing  you  devoted  your  lives  to  be  mer- 
chants, you  might  reflect  at  the  close  of  them,  how  many, 
fainting  for  want,  you  had  brought  corn  to  sustain  ;  how  many, 
infected  with  disease,  you  had  brought  balms  to  heal ;  how 
widely,  among  multitudes  of  far-away  nations,  you  had  scat- 
tered the  first  seeds  of  national  power,  and  guided  the  first 
rays  of  sacred  light.  Had  you  been,  in  fine,  anything  else  in 
the  world  but  architectural  designers,  you  might  have  been  of 
some  use  or  good  to  people.  Content  to  be  petty  tradesmen, 
ioxx  would  have  saved  tha  tir~3  of  mankind  : — \*oii^h-handed. 


84 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


daily  labourers,  3-011  would  have  added  to  their  stock  of  food 
or  of  clothing.  But,  being  men  of  genius,  and  devoting  your 
lives  to  the  exquisite  exposition  of  this  genius,  on  what  achieve- 
ments do  you  think  the  memories  of  your  old  age  are  to  fasten  ? 
Whose  gratitude  will  surround  you  with  its  glow,  or  on  what 
accomplished  good,  of  that  greatest  kind  for  which  men  show 
no  gratitude,  will  your  life  rest  the  contentment  of  its  close  ? 
Truly,  I  fear  that  the  ghosts  of  proportionate  lines  will  be  thin 
phantoms  at  your  bedsides — very  speechless  to  you  ;  and 
that  on  all  the  emanations  of  your  high  genius  you  will  look 
back  with  less  delight  than  you  might  have  done  on  a  cup  of 
cold  water  given  to  him  who  was  thirsty,  or  to  a  single  mo- 
ment when  you  had  "  prevented  with  your  bread  him  that 
fied.5' 

Do  not  answer,  nor  think  to  answer,  that  with  your  great 
works  and  great  payments  of  workmen  in  them,  you  would 
do  this  ;  I  know  you  would,  and  will,  as  Builders  ;  but,  I  re- 
peat, it  is  not  your  building  that  I  am  talking  about,  but  your 
brains  ;  it  is  your  invention  and  imagination  of  whose  profit  I 
am  speaking.  The  good  done  through  the  building,,  observe, 
is  done  by  your  employers,  not  by  you — you  share  in  the* 
benefit  of  it.  The  good  that  you  personally  must  do  is  by  your 
designing  ;  and  I  compare  you  with  musicians  who  do  good 
by  their  pathetic  composing,  not  as  they  do  good  by  employ- 
ing fiddlers  in  the  orchestra  ;  for  it  is  the  public  who  in  reality 
do  that,  not  the  musicians.  So  clearly  keeping  to  this  one 
question,  what  good  we  architects  are  to  do  by  our  genius  ; 
and  having  found  that  on  our  proportionate  system  we  can 
do  no  good  to  others,  will  you  tell  me,  lastly,  what  good  we 
can  do  to  ourselves? 

Observe,  nearly  every  other  liberal  art  or  profession  has 
some  intense  pleasure  connected  with  it,  irrespective  of  any 
good  to  others.  As  lawyers,  or  physicians,  or  clergymen,  you 
would  have  the  pleasure  of  investigation,  and  of  historical 
reading,  as  part  of  your  work  :  as  men  of  science  you  would 
be  rejoicing  in  curiosity  perpetually  gratified  respecting  the 
laws  and  facts  of  nature  :  as  artists  you  would  have  delight  in 
watching  the  external  forms  of  nature :  as  day  labourers  or 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


85 


petty  tradesmen,  supposing  you  to  undertake  such  work  with  as 
much  intellect  as  you  are  going  to  devote  to  your  designing, 
you  would  find  continued  subjects  of  interest  in  the  manufac- 
ture or  the  agriculture  which  you  helped  to  improve  ;  or  in 
the  problems  of  commerce  which  bore  on  your  business.  But 
your  architectural  designing  leads  you  into  no  pleasant  jour- 
neys,— into  no  seeing  of  lovely  things, — no  discerning  of  just 
laws, — no  warmths  of  compassion,  no  humilities  of  veneration, 
no  progressive  state  of  sight  or  soul.  Our  conclusion  is — 
must  be — that  you  will  not  amuse,  nor  inform,  nor  help  any- 
body ;  you  will  not  amuse,  nor  better,  nor  inform  yourselves  ; 
you  will  sink  into  a  state  in  which  you  can  neither  show,  nor 
feel,  nor  see,  anything,  but  that  one  is  to  two  as  three  is  to 
six.  And  in  that  state  what  should  we  call  ourselves  ?  Men  ? 
I  think  not.  The  right  name  for  us  would  be — numerators 
jmd  denominators.    Vulgar  Fractions. 

Shall  we,  then,  abandon  this  theory  of  the  soul  of  architect- 
ure being  in  proportional  lines,  and  look  whether  we  can  find 
anything  better  to  exert  our  fancies  upon  ? 

May  we  not,  to  begin  with,  accept  this  great  principle — 
that,  as  our  bodies,  to  be  in  health,  must  be  generally  exer- 
cised, so  our  minds,  to  be  in  health,  must  be  generally  culti- 
vated ?  You  would  not  call  a  man  healthy  who  had  strong 
arms  but  was  paralytic  in  his  feet ;  nor  one  who  could  walk 
well,  but  had  no  use  of  his  hands ;  nor  one  who  could  see 
well,  if  he  could  not  hear.  You  would  not  voluntarily  reduce 
your  bodies  to  any  such  partially  developed  state.  Much 
more,  then,  you  would  not,  if  you  could  help  it,  reduce  your 
minds  to  it.  Now,  your  minds  are  endowed  with  a  vast  num- 
ber of  gifts  of  totally  different  uses— limbs  of  mind  as  it  were, 
which,  if  you  don't  exercise,  you  cripple.  One  is  curiosity ; 
that  is  a  gift,  a  capacity  of  pleasure  in  knowing  ;  which  if  you 
destroy,  you  make  yourselves  cold  and  dull.  Another  is  sym- 
pathy ;  the  power  of  sharing  in  the  feelings  of  living  creatures, 
which  if  you  destroy,  you  make  yourselves  hard  and  cruel. 
Another  of  your  limbs  of  mind  is  admiration  ;  the  power  of 
enjoying  beauty  or  ingenuity,  which,  if  you  destroy,  you  make 
yourselves  base  and  irreverent.    Another  is  wit ;  or  the  power 


86 


THE  TWO  FATES. 


of  playing  with  the  lights  on  the  many  sides  of  truth ;  which 
if  you  destroy,  you  make  yourselves  gloomy,  and  less  useful 
and  cheering  to  others  than  you  might  be.  So  that  in  choos- 
ing your  way  of  work  it  should  be  your  aim,  as  far  as  possible, 
to  bring  out  all  these  faculties,  as  far  as  they  exist  in  you  ;  not 
one  merely,  nor  another,  but  all  of  them.  And  the  way  to 
bring  them  out,  is  simply  to  concern  yourselves  attentively 
with  the  subjects  of  each  faculty.  To  cultivate  sympathy  you 
must  be  among  living  creatures,  and  thinking  about  them  ; 
and  to  cultivate  admiration,  you  must  be  among  beautiful 
things  and  looking  at  them. 

All  this  sounds  much  like  truism,  at  least  I  hope  it  does,  for 
then  you  will  surely  not  refuse  to  act  upon  it ;  and  to  con- 
sider farther,  how,  as  architects,  you  are  to  keep  yourselves 
in  contemplation  of  living  creatures  and  lovely  things. 

You  all  probably  know  the  beautiful  photographs  which 
have  been  published  within  the  last  year  or  two  of  the  porches 
of  the  Cathedral  of  Amiens.  I  hold  one  of  these  up  to  you, 
(merely  that  you  may  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  as  of 
course  you  cannot  see  the  detail  at  this  distance,  but  you  will 
recognise  the  subject.)  Have  you  ever  considered  how  much 
sympathy,  and  how  much  humour,  are  developed  in  filling 
this  single  doorway  f  with  these  sculptures  of  the  history  of 
Si  Hon  ore  (and,  by  the  way,  considering  how  often  we  Eng- 
lish are  now  driving  up  and  down  the  Eue  St.  Honore,  we 
may  as  well  know  as  much  of  the  saint  as  the  old  architect 
cared  to  tell  us).  You  know  in  all  legends  of  saints  who  ever 
were  bishops,  the  first  thing  you  are  told  of  them  is  that  they 
didn't  want  to  be  bishops.  So  here  is  St.  Honore,  who  doesn't 
want  to  be  a  bishop,  sitting  sulkily  in  the  corner  ;  he  hugs 
his  book  with  both  hands,  and  won't  get  up  to  take  his  cro- 
sier ;  and  here  are  all  the  city  aldermen  of  Amiens  come  to 
poke  him  up  ;  and  all  the  monks  in  the  town  in  a  great  puzzle 
what  they  shall  do  for  a  bishop  if  St.  Honore  won't  be  ;  and 
here's  one  of  the  monks  in  the  opposite  corner  who  is  quite 
cool  about  it,  and  thinks  they'll  get  on  well  enough  without 

*  The  tympanum  of  the  south  transept  door  ;  it  Is  to"  be  found  gener- 
ally  among  all  collections  of  architectural  photographs. 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


87 


St.  Honor e, — you  see  that  in  bis  face  perfectly.  At  last  St. 
Honore  consents  to  be  bishop,  and  here  he  sits  in  a  throne, 
and  has  his  book  now  grandly  on  his  desk  instead  of  his 
knees,  and  he  directs  one  of  his  village  curates  how  to  find 
relics  in  a  wood  ;  here  is  the  wood,  and  here  is  the  village 
curate,  and  here  are  the  tombs,  with  the  bones  of  St.  Victo- 
rien  and  Gentien  in  them. 

After  this,  St.  Honore  performs  grand  mass,  and  the  mira- 
cle occurs  of  the  appearance  of  a  hand  blessing  the  wafer, 
which  occurrence  afterwards  wTas  painted  for  the  arms  of  the 
abbey.  Then  St.  Honore  dies  ;  and  here  is  his  tomb  with 
his  statue  on  the  top  ;  and  miracles  are  being  performed  at  it 
— a  deaf  man  having  his  ear  touched,  and  a  blind  man  grop- 
ing his  way  up  to  the  tomb  with  his  dog.  Then  here  is  a 
great  procession  in  honour  of  the  relics  of  St.  Honore  ;  and 
under  his  coffin  are  some  cripples  being  healed ;  and  the 
coffin  itself  is  put  above  the  bar  which  separates  the  cross 
from  the  lower  subjects,  because  the  tradition  is  that  the 
figure  on  the  crucifix  of  the  Church  of  St.  Firmin  bowed  its 
head  in  token  of  acceptance,  as  the  relics  of  St.  Honore  passed 
beneath. 

Now  just  consider  the  amount  of  sympathy  with  human 
nature,  and  observance  of  it,  shown  in  this  one  bas-relief ;  the 
sympathy  with  disputing  monks,  with  puzzled  aldermen, 
with  melancholy  recluse,  with  triumphant  prelate,  with  palsy- 
stricken  poverty,  with  ecclesiastical  magnificence,  or  miracle- 
working  faith.  Consider  how  much  intellect  was  needed  in 
the  architect,  and  how  much  observance  of  nature  before  he 
could  give  the  expression  to  these  various  figures — cast  these 
multitudinous  draperies — design  these  rich  and  quaint  frag- 
ments of  tombs  and  altars — weave  with  perfect  animation  the 
entangled  branches  of  the  forest. 

But  you  will  answer  me,  all  this  is  not  architecture  at  all — 
it  is  sculpture.  Will  you  then  tell  me  precisely  where  the 
the  separation  exists  between  one  and  the  other  ?  We  will 
begin  at  the  very  beginning.  I  will  show  you  a  piece  of  what 
you  will  certainly  admit  to  be  a  piece  of  pure  architecture  ;  * 
*  See  Appendix  III.,  "  Classical  Architecture." 


88 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


it  is  drawn  on  the  back  of  another  photograph,  another  of 
these  marvellous  tympana  from  Notre  Dame,  which  you  call, 
I  suppose,  impure.  Well,  look  on  this  picture,  and  on  this. 
Don't  laugh  ;  you  must  not  laugh,  that's  very  improper  ot 
you,  this  is  classical  architecture.  I  have  taken  it  out  of  the 
essay  on  that  subject  in  the  "  Encyclopaedia  Britannica." 

Yet  I  suppose  none  of  you  would  think  yourselves  particu- 
larly ingenious  architects  if  you  had  designed  nothing  more 
than  this ;  nay,  I  will  even  let  you  improve  it  into  any  grand 
proportion  you  choose,  and  add  to  it  as  many  windows  as  you 
choose  ;  the  only  thing  I  insist  upon  in  our  specimen  of  pure 
architecture  is,  that  there  shall  be  no  mouldings  nor  orna- 
ments upon  it.  And  I  suspect  you  don't  quite  like  your  ar- 
chitecture so  "  pure  "  as  this.  We  want  a  few  mouldings, 
you  will  say — just  a  few.  Those  who  want  mouldings,  hold 
up  their  hands.  We  are  unanimous,  I  think.  Will,  you, 
then,  design  the  profiles  of  these  mouldings  yourselves,  or 
will  you  copy  them  ?  If  you  wish  to  copy  them,  and  to  copy 
them  always,  of  course  I  leave  you  at  once  to  your  authorities, 
and  your  imaginations  to  their  repose.  But  if  you  wish  to 
design  them  yourselves,  how  do  you  do  it  ?  You  draw  the 
profile  according  to  your  taste,  and  you  order  your  mason  to 
cut  it.  Nov/,  will  you  tell  me  the  logical  difference  between 
drawing  the  profile  of  a  moulding  and  giving  that  to  be  cut, 
and  drawing  the  folds  of  the  drapery  of  a  statue  and  giving 
those  to  be  cut.  The  last  is  much  more  difficult  to  do  than 
the  first  ;  but  degrees  of  difficulty  constitute  no  specific  differ- 
ence, and  you  will  not  accept  it,  surely,  as  a  definition  of  the 
difference  between  architecture  and  sculpture,  that  "  archi- 
tecture is  doing  anything  that  is  easy,  and  sculpture  anything 
that  is  difficult." 

It  is  true,  also,  that  the  carved  moulding  represents  nothing, 
and  the  carved  drapery  represents  something  ;  but  you  will 
not,  I  should  think,  accept,  as  an  explanation  of  the  difference 
between  architecture  and  sculpture,  this  any  more  than  the 
other,  that  "  sculpture  is  art  which  has  meaning,  and  archi- 
tecture art  which  has  none." 

Where,  then,  is  your  difference  ?    In  this,  perhaps,  you  wilJ 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE.  89 

say  ;  that  whatever  ornaments  we  can  direct  ourselves,  and 
get  accurately  cut  to  order,  we  consider  architectural.  The 
ornaments  that  we  are  obliged  to  leave  to  the  pleasure  of  the 
workman,  or  the  superintendence  of  some  other  designer,  we 
consider  sculptural,  especially  if  they  are  more  or  less  ex- 
traneous and  incrusted — not  an  essential  part  of  the  build* 
ing. 

Accepting  this  definition,  I  am  compelled  to  reply,  that  it 
is  in  effect  nothing  more  than  an  amplification  of  my  first  one 
— that  whatever  is  easy  you  call  architecture,  whatever  is  diffi- 
cult you  call  sculpture.  For  you  cannot  suppose  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  place  in  which  the  sculpture  is  to  be  put  is  so  diffi- 
cult or  so  great  a  part  of  the  design  as  the  sculpture  itself. 
For  instance  :  you  all  know  the  pulpit  of  Niccolo  Pisano,  in 
the  baptistry  at  Pisa.  It  is  composed  of  seven  rich  relievi, 
surrounded  by  panel  mouldings,  and  sustained  on  marble 
shafts.  Do  you  suppose  Niccolo  Pisano's  reputation — such  part 
of  it  at  least  as  rests  on  this  pulpit  (and  much  does)  — depends 
on  the  panel  mouldings,  or  on  the  relievi  ?  The  panel  mould- 
ings are  by  his  hand  ;  he  would  have  disdained  to  leave  even 
them  to  a  common  workman  ;  but  do  you  think  he  found  any 
difficulty  in  them,  or  thought  there  was  any  credit  in  them  ? 
Having  once  done  the  sculpture,  those  enclosing  lines  were 
mere  child's  play  to  him  ;  the  determination  of  the  diameter 
of  shafts  and  height  of  capitals  was  an  affair  of  minutes  ;  his 
work  was  in  carving  the  Crucifixion  and  the  Baptism. 

Or,  again,  do  you  recollect  Orcagna's  tabernacle  in  the 
church  of  San  Michele,  at  Florence  ?  That,  also,  consists  of 
rich  and  multitudinous  bas-reliefs,  enclosed  in  panel  mould- 
ings, with  shafts  of  mosaic,  and  foliated  arches  sustaining  the 
canopy.  Do  you  think  Orcagna,  any  more  than  Pisano,  if  his 
spirit  could  rise  in  the  midst  of  us  at  this  moment,  would  tell 
us  that  he  had  trusted  his  fame  to  the  foliation,  or  had  put 
his  soul's  pride  into  the  panelling  ?  Not  so  ;  he  would  tell  you 
that  his  spirit  was  in  the  stooping  figures  that  stand  round  the 
couch  of  the  dying  Virgin. 

Or,  lastly,  do  you  think  the  man  who  designed  the  proces- 
sion on  the  portal  of  Amiens  was  the  subordinate  workman? 


90 


TEE  TWO,  PATHS. 


that  there  was  an  architect  over  him,  restraining  him  within 
certain  limits,  and  ordering  of  him  his  bishops  at  so  much  a 
mitre,  and  his  cripples  at  so  much  a  crutch  ?  Not  so.  Here, 
on  this  sculptured  shield,  rests  the  Master's  hand  ;  this  is  the 
centre  of  the  Master's  thought ;  from  this,  and  in  subordina- 
tion to  this,  waved  the  arch  and  sprang  the  pinnacle.  Hav- 
ing done  this,  and  being  able  to  give  human  expression  and 
action  to  the  stone,  all  the  rest — the  rib,  the  niche,  the  foil, 
the  shaft — were  mere  toys  to  his  hand  and  accessories  to  his 
conception  :  and  if  once  you  also  gain  the  gift  of  doing  this, 
if  once  you  can  carve  one  fronton  such  as  you  have  here,  I  tell 
you,  you  wTould  be  able — so  far  as  it  depended  on  your  inven- 
tion— to  scatter  cathedrals  over  England  as  fast  as  clouds  rise 
from  its  streams  after  summer  rain. 

Nay,  but  perhaps  you  answer  again,  our  sculptors  at  present 
do  not  design  cathedrals,  and  could  not.  No,  they  could  not ; 
but  that  is  merely  because  we  have  made  architecture  so  dull 
that  they  cannot  take  any  interest  in  it,  and,  therefore,  do 
not  care  to  add  to  their  higher  knowledge  the  poor  and  com- 
mon knowledge  of  principles  of  building.  You  have  thus 
separated  building  from  sculpture,  and  you  have  taken  away 
the  power  of  both  ;  for  the  sculptor  loses  nearly  as  much  by 
never  having  room  for  the  development  of  a  continuous  work, 
as  you  do  from  having  reduced  your  work  to  a  continuity  of 
mechanism.  You  are  essentially,  and  should  always  be,  the 
same  body  of  men,  admitting  only  such  difference  in  operation 
as  there  is  between  the  wrork  of  a  painter  at  different  times, 
who  sometimes  labours  on  a  small  picture,  and  sometimes  on 
the  frescoes  of  a  palace  gallery. 

This  conclusion,  then,  we  arrive  at,  must  arrive  at ;  the  fact 
being  irrevocably  so  : — that  in  order  to  give  your  imagination 
and  the  other  powers  of  your  souls  full  play,  you  must  do  as 
all  the  great  architects  of  old  time  did — you  must  yourselves 
be  your  sculptors.  Phidias.  Michael  Angelo,  Orcagna,  Pisano, 
Giotto, — which  of  these  men,  do  you  think,  could  not  use  his 
chisel?  You  say,  "It  is  difficult;  quite  out  of  your  way."  I 
know  it  is ;  nothing  that  is  great  is  easy ;  and  nothing  that 
is  great,  so  long  as  you  study  building  without  sculpture,  can 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


91 


be  in  your  way.  I  want  to  put  it  in  your  way,  and  you  to  find 
your  way  to  it.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  do  not  shrink  from 
the  task  as  if  the  refined  art  of  perfect  sculpture  were  always 
required  from  you.  For,  though  architecture  and  sculpture 
are  not  separate  arts,  there  is  an  architectural  manner  of  sculp- 
ture :  and  it  is,  in  the  majority  of  its  applications,  a  compar- 
atively easy  one.  Our  great  mistake  at  present,  in  dealing 
with  stone  at  all,  is  requiring  to  have  all  our  work  too  refined  ; 
it  is  just  the  same  mistake  as  if  we  were  to  require  all  our 
book  illustrations  to  be  as  fine  work  as  Raphael's.  John  Leech 
does  not  sketch  so  well  as  Leonardo  da  Vinci ;  but  do  you 
think  that  the  public  could  easily  spare  him;  or  that  he  is  wrong 
in  bringing  out  his  talent  in  the  way  in  which  it  is  most  effect- 
ive ?  Would  you  advise  him,  if  he  asked  your  advice,  to  give 
up  his  wood-blocks  and  take  to  canvas  ?  I  know  you  would 
not ;  neither  would  you  tell  him,  I  believe,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  because  he  could  not  draw  as  well  as  Leonardo,  therefore 
he  ought  to  draw  nothing  but  straight  lines  with  a  ruler,  and 
circles  with  compasses,  and  no  figure-subjects  at  all.  That 
would  be  some  loss  to  you  ;  would  it  not  ?  You  would  all  be 
vexed  if  next  week's  Punch  had  nothing  in  it  but  proportion- 
ate lines.  And  yet,  do  not  you  see  that  you  are  doing  pre- 
cisely the  same  thing  with  your  powers  of  sculptural  design 
that  he  would  be  doing  with  his  powers  of  pictorial  design, 
if  he  gave  you  nothing  but  such  lines.  You  feel  that  you 
cannot  carve  like  Phidias  ;  therefore  you  will  not  carve  at  all, 
but  only  draw  mouldings ;  and  thus  all  that  intermediate 
power  which  is  of  especial  value  in  modern  days, — that  popu- 
lar power  of  expression  which  is  within  the  attainment  of 
thousands, — and  would  address  itself  to  tens  of  thousands, 
— is  utterly  lost  to  us  in  stone,  though  in  ink  and  paper  it 
has  become  one  of  the  most  desired  luxuries  of  modern  civili- 
zation. 

Here,  then,  is  one  part  of  the  subject  to  which  I  would  espe- 
cially invite  your  attention,  namely,  the  distinctive  character 
which  may  be  wisely  permitted  to  belong  to  architectural 
sculpture,  as  distinguished  from  perfect  sculpture  on  one  side, 
and  from  mere  geometrical  decoration  on  the  other. 


92 


THE  TWO  rATIlS. 


And  first,  observe  what  an  indulgence  we  have  in  the  dis» 
tance  at  which  most  work  is  to  be  seen.  Supposing  we  were 
able  to  carve  eyes  and  lips  with  the  most  exquisite  precision, 
it  would  all  be  of  no  use  as  soon  as  the  work  was  put  far  above 
the  eye  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  as  beauties  disappear  by  be- 
ing far  withdrawn,  so  will  faults ;  and  the  mystery  and  con- 
fusion which  are  the  natural  consequence  of  distance,  while 
they  would  often  render  your  best  skill  but  vain,  will  as  often 
render  your  worst  errors  of  little  consequence  ;  nay,  more  than 
this,  often  a  deep  cut,  or  a  rude  angle,  will  produce  in  certain 
positions  an  effect  of  expression  both  startling  and  true, which 
you  never  hoped  for.  Not  that  mere  distance  will  give  ani- 
mation to  the  work,  if  it  has  none  in  itself ;  but  if  it  has  life 
at  all,  the  distance  will  make  that  life  more  perceptible  and 
powerful  by  softening  the  defects  of  execution.  So  that  you 
are  placed,  as  workmen,  in  this  position  of  singular  advantage, 
that  you  may  give  your  fancies  free  play,  and  strike  hard  for 
the  expression  that  you  want,  knowing  that,  if  you  miss  it, 
no  one  will  detect  you  ;  if  you  at  all  touch  it,  nature  herself 
will  help  you,  and  with  every  changing  shadow  and  basking 
sunbeam  bring  forth  new  phases  of  your  fancy. 

But  it  is  not  merely  this  privilege  of  being  imperfect  which 
belongs  to  architectural  sculpture.  It  has  a  true  privilege  of 
imagination,  far  excelling  all  that  can  be  granted  to  the  more 
finished  work,  which,  for  the  sake  of  distinction,  I  will  call, — ■ 
and  I  don't  think  we  can  have  a  much  better  term — "  furniture 
sculpture  ; "  sculpture,  that  is,  which  can  be  moved  from  place 
to  furnish  rooms. 

For  observe,  to  that  sculpture  the  spectator  is  usually 
brought  in  a  tranquil  or  prosaic  state  of  mind  ;  he  sees  it  as- 
sociated rather  with  what  is  sumptuous  than  sublime,  and 
under  circumstances  which  address  themselves  more  to  his 
comfort  than  his  curiosity.  The  statue  which  is  to  be  pa- 
thetic, seen  between  the  flashes  of  footmen's  livery  round 
the  dining-table,  must  have  strong  elements  of  pathos  in 
itself ;  and  the  statue  which  is  to  be  awful,  in  the  midst  of 
the  gossip  of  the  drawing-room,  must  have  the  elements  of 
awe  wholly  in  itself.    But  the  spectator  is  brought  to  your 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


93 


work  already  in  an  excited  and  imaginative  mood.  He  has 
been  impressed  by  the  cathedral  wall  as  it  loomed  over  the 
low  streets,  before  he  looks  up  to  the  carving  of  its  porch 
— and  his  love  of  mystery  has  been  touched  by  the  silence 
and  the  shadows  of  the  cloister,  before  he  can  set  himself 
to  decipher  the  bosses  on  its  vaulting.  So  that  when  once 
he  begins  to  observe  your  doings,  he  will  ask  nothing  better 
from  you,  nothing  kinder  from  you,  than  that  you  would 
meet  this  imaginative  temper  of  his  half  way  ; — that  you 
would  farther  touch  the  sense  of  terror,  or  satisf}-  the  expecta- 
tion of  things  strange,  which  have  been  prompted  by  the 
mystery  or  the  majesty  of  the  surrounding  scene.  And 
thus,  your  leaving  forms  more  or  less  undefined,  or  carrying 
out  your  fancies,  however  extravagant,  in  grotesqueness  of 
shadow  or  shape,  will  be  for  the  most  part  in  accordance 
with  the  temper  of  the  observer  ;  and  he  is  likely,  therefore, 
much  more  willingly  to  use  his  fancy  to  help  your  meanings, 
than  his  judgment  to  detect  your  faults. 

Again.  Remember  that  when  the  imagination  and  feelings 
are  strongly  excited,  they  will  not  only  bear  with  strange 
things,  but  they  will  look  into  minute  things  with  a  delight 
quite  unknown  in  hours  of  tranquillity.  You  surely  must 
remember  moments  of  your  lives  in  which,  under  some 
strong  excitement  of  feeling,  all  the  details  of  visible  objects 
presented  themselves  with  a  strange  intensity  and  insistauce, 
whether  you  would  or  no  ;  urging  themselves  upon  the  mind, 
and  thrust  upon  the  eye,  with  a  force  of  fascination  which  you 
could  not  refuse.  Now,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  senses  get 
into  this  state  whenever  the  imagination  is  strongly  excited. 
Things  trivial  at  other  times  assume  a  dignity  or  significance 
which  we  cannot  explain  ;  but  which  is  only  the  more  attrac« 
tive  because  inexplicable  :  and  the  powers  of  attention,  quick- 
ened by  the  feverish  excitement,  fasten  and  feed  upon  the 
minutest  circumstances  of  detail,  and  remotest  traces  of 
intention.  So  that  what  would  at  other  times  be  felt  as  more 
or  less  mean  or  extraneous  in  a  work  of  sculpture,  and  which 
would  assuredly  be  offensive  to  the  perfect  taste  in  its  moments 
of  languor,  or  of  critical  judgment,  will  be  grateful,  and  even 


94 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


.-sublime,  when  it  meets  this  frightened  inquisitiveness,  this  fas- 
cinated watchfulness,  of  the  roused  imagination.  And  this  is 
a>l  for  your  advantage  ;  for,  in  the  beginnings  of  your  sculp- 
ture, you  will  assuredly  find  it  easier  to  imitate  minute  cir- 
cumstances of  costume  or  character,  than  to  perfect  the  anat- 
omy of  simple  forms  or  the  flow  of  noble  masses  ;  and  it  will 
be  encouraging  to  remember  that  the  grace  you  cannot  per- 
fect, and  the  simplicity  you  cannot  achieve,  would  be  in  great 
part  vain,  even  if  you  could  achieve  them,  in  their  appeal  to 
the  hasty  curiosity  of  passionate  fancy ;  but  that  the  sympathy 
which  would  be  refused  to  your  science  will  be  granted  to 
your  innocence :  and  that  the  mind  of  the  general  observer, 
though  wholly  unaffected  by  the  correctness  of  anatomy  or 
propriety  of  gesture,  will  follow  you  with  fond  and  pleased 
concurrence,  as  you  carve  the  knots  of  the  hair,  'and  the  pat- 
terns of  the  vesture. 

Farther  yet.  We  are  to  remember  that  not  only  do  the 
associated  features  of  the  larger  architecture  tend  to  excite 
the  strength  of  fancy,  but  the  architectural  laws  to  which  }^ou 
are  obliged  to  submit  your  decoration  stimulate  its  ingenuity. 
Every  crocket  which  you  are  to  crest  with  sculpture, — every 
foliation  which  you  have  to  fill,  presents  itself  to  the  specta- 
tor's fancy,  not  only  as  a  pretty  thing,  but  as  a  problematic 
thing.  It  contained,  he  perceives  immediately,  not  only  a 
beauty  which  you  wished  to  display,  but  a  necessity  which 
you  were  forced  to  meet ;  and  the  problem,  how  to  occupy 
such  and  such  a  space  with  organic  form  in  any  probable 
way,  or  how  to  turn  such  a  boss  or  ridge  into  a  conceivable 
image  of  life,  becomes  at  once,  to  him  as  to  you,  a  matter  of 
amusement  as  much  as  of  admiration.  The  ordinary  condi- 
tions of  perfection  in  form,  gesture,  or  feature,  are  willingly 
dispensed  with,  when  the  ugly  dwarf  and  ungainly  goblin 
have  only  to  gather  themselves  into  angles,  or  crouch  to  carry 
corbels  ;  and  the  want  of  skill  which,  in  other  kinds  of  work, 
would  have  been  required  for  the  finishing  of  the  parts,  will 
at  once  be  forgiven  here,  if  you  have  only  disposed  in- 
geniously what  you  have  executed  roughly,  and  atoned  for 
the  rudeness  of  your  hands  by  the  quickness  of  your  wits. 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE-. 


95 


Hitherto,  however,  we  have  been  considering  only  the  cir- 
cumstances in  architecture  favourable  to  the  development  of 
the  poivers  of  imagination.  A  yet  more  important  point  for 
us  seems,  to  me,  the  place  which  it  gives  to  all  the  objects  of 
imagination. 

For,  I  suppose,  you  will  not  wish  me  to  spend  any  time  in 
proving,  that  imagination  must  be  vigorous  in  proportion  to 
the  quantity  of  material  which  it  lias  to  handle ;  and  that, 
just  as  we  increase  the  range  of  what  we  see,  we  increase  the 
richness  of  what  we  can  imagine.  Granting  this,  consider 
what  a  field  is  opened  to  your  fancy  merely  in  the  subject 
matter  which  architecture  admits.  Nearly  every  other  art  is 
severely  limited  in  its  subjects — the  landscape  painter,  for  in- 
stance, gets  little  help  from  the  aspects  of  beautiful  humanity ; 
the  historical  painter,  less,  perhaps,  than  he  ought,  from  the 
accidents  of  wild  nature  ;  and  the  pure  sculptor,  still  less,  from 
the  minor  details  of  common  life.  But  is  there  anything  within 
range  of  sight,  or  conception,  which  may  not  be  of  use  to 
you,  or  in  which  your  interest  may  not  be  excited  with  ad- 
vantage to  your  art  ?  From  visions  of  angels,  down  to  the 
least  important  gesture  of  a  child  at  play,  whatever  may  be 
conceived  of  Divine,  or  beheld  of  Human,  may  be  dared  or 
adopted  by  you  :  throughout  the  kingdom  of  animal  life,  no 
creature  is  so  vast,  or  so  minute,  that  you  cannot  deal  with  it, 
or  bring  it  into  service  ;  the  lion  and  the  crocodile  will  couch 
about  your  shafts  ;  the  moth  and  the  bee  will  sun  themselves 
upon  your  flowers  ;  for  you,  the  fawn  will  leap  ;  for  you,  the 
snail  be  slow  ;  for  you,  the  dove  smooth  her  bosom  ;  and  the 
hawk  spread  her  wings  toward  the  south.  All  the  wide 
world  of  vegetation  blooms  and  bends  for  you  ;  the  leaves 
tremble  that  you  may  bid  them  be  still  under  the  marble 
snow  ;  the  thorn  and  the  thistle,  which  the  earth  casts  forth 
as  evil,  are  to  you  the  kindliest  servants  ;  no  dying  petal,  nor 
drooping  tendril,  is  so  feeble  as  to  have  no  more  help  for 
you  ;  no  robed  pride  of  blossom  so  kingly,  but  it  will  lay 
aside  its  purple  to  receive  at  your  hands  the  pale  immortality. 
Is  there  anything  in  common  life  too  mean, — in  common 
things  too  trivial, — to  be  ennobled  by  your  touch  ?    As  there 


90 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


is  nothing  in  life,  so  there  is  nothing  in  lifelessness  which 
has  not  its  lesson  for  you,  or  its  gift;  and  when  you  aro 
tired  of  watching  the  strength  of  the  plume,  and  the  tender- 
ness of  the  leaf,  you  may  walk  down  to  your  rough  river 
shore,  or  into  the  thickest  markets  of  your  thoroughfares,  and 
there  is  not  a  piece  of  torn  cable  that  will  not  twine  into  a 
perfect  moulding  ;  there  is  not  a  fragment  of  cast-away  mat- 
ting, or  shattered  basket-work,  that  will  not  work  into  a 
chequer  or  capital.  Yes:  and  if  you  gather  up  the  very  sand, 
and  break  the  stone  on  which  you  tread,  among  its  fragments 
of  all  but  invisible  shells  you  will  find  forms  that  will  take 
their  place,  and  that  proudly,  among  the  starred  traceries  of 
your  vaulting  ;  and  you,  who  can  crown  the  mountain  with  its 
fortress,  and  the  city  with  its  towers,  are  thus  able  also  to 
give  beauty  to  ashes,  and  worthiness  to  dust. 

Now,  in  that  your  art  presents  all  this  material  to  you,  you 
have  already  much  to  rejoice  in.  But  you  have  more  to  re- 
joice in,  because  all  this  is  submitted  to  you,  not  to  be  dis- 
sected or  analyzed,  but  to  be  sympathized  with,  and  to  bring 
out,  therefore,  what  may  be  accurately  called  the  moral  part 
of  imagination.  We  saw  that,  if  we  kept  ourselves  among 
lines  only,  we  should  have  cause  to  envy  the  naturalist,  be  - 
cause he  was  conversant  with  facts ;  but  you  will  have  little 
to  envy  now,  if  you  make  yourselves  conversant  with  the  feel- 
ings that  arise  out  of  his  facts.  For  instance,  the  naturalist 
coming  upon  a  block  of  marble,  has  to  begin  considering  im- 
mediately how  far  its  purple  is  owing  to  iron,  or  its  whiteness 
to  magnesia ;  he  breaks  his  piece  of  marble,  and  at  the  close 
of  his  day,  has  nothing  but  a  little  sand  in  his  crucible  and 
some  data  added  to  the  theory  of  the  elements.  But  you  ap- 
proach your  marble  to  sympathize  with  it,  and  rejoice  over 
its  beauty.  You  cut  it  a  little  indeed  ;  but  only  to  bring  out 
its  veins  more  perfectly  ;  and  at  the  end  of  your  day's  work 
you  leave  your  marble  shaft  with  joy  and  complacency  in  its 
perfectness,  as  marble.  When  you  have  to  watch  an  animal 
instead  of  a  stone,  you  differ  from  the  naturalist  in  the  same 
wa}r.  He  may,  perhaps,  if  he  be  an  amiable  naturalist,  take 
delight  in  having  living  creatures  round  him  ; — still,  the  ma- 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


97 


jor  part  of  his  work  is,  or  lias  been,  in  counting  feathers, 
separating  fibres,  and  analyzing  structures.  But  your  work 
is  always  with  the  living  creature  ;  the  thing  you  have  to  gel 
at  in  him  is  his  life,  and  ways  of  going  about  things.  It  does 
not  matter  to  you  how  many  cells  there  are  in  his  bones,  or 
how  many  filaments  in  his  feathers ;  what  you  want  is  his 
moral  character  and  way  of  behaving  himself  ;  it  is  just  that 
which  your  imagination,  if  healthy,  will  first  seize — just  that 
which  your  chisel,  if  vigorous,  will  first  cut.  You  must  get 
the  storm  spirit  into  your  eagles,  and  the  lordliness  into  your 
lions,  and  the  tripping  fear  into  your  fawns ;  and  in  order  to 
do  this,  you  must  be  in  continual  sympathy  with  every  fawn 
of  them  ;  and  be  hand-in-glove  with  all  the  lions,  and  hand- 
in-claw  with  all  the  hawks.  And  don't  fancy  that  you  will 
lower  yourselves  by  sympathy  with  the  lower  creatures  ;  you 
cannot  sympathize  rightly  with  the  higher,  unless  you  do 
with  those  :  but  you  have  to  sympathize  with  the  higher,  too — 
with  queens,  and  kings,  and  martyrs,  and  angels.  Yes,  and 
above  all,  and  more  than  all,  with  simple  humanity  in  all  its 
needs  and  ways,  for  there  is  not  one  hurried  face  that  passes 
you  in  the  street  that  will  not  be  impressive,  if  you  can  only 
fathom  it.  All  history  is  open  to  you,  all  high  thoughts  and 
dreams  that  the  past  fortunes  of  men  can  suggest,  all  fairy 
land  is  open  to  you — no  vision  that  ever  haunted  forest,  or 
gleamed  over  hill-side,  but  calls  you  to  understand  how  it 
came  into  men's  hearts,  and  may  still  touch  them  ;  and  all 
Paradise  is  open  to  you — yes,  and  the  work  of  Paradise  ;  for 
in  bringing  all  ihis,  in  perpetual  and  attractive  truth,  before 
the  eyes  of  your  fellow-men,  you  have  to  join  in  the  employ- 
ment of  the  angels,  as  well  as  to  imagine  their  companies. 

And  observe,  in  this  last  respect,  what  a  peculiar  impor- 
tance, and  responsibility,  are  attached  to  your  work,  when 
you  consider  its  permanence,  and  the  multitudes  to  whom  it 
is  addressed.  We  frequently  are  led,  by  wise  people,  to  con- 
sider what  responsibility  may  sometimes  attach  to  words, 
which  yet,  the  chance  is,  will  be  heard  by  few,  and  forgotten 
as  soon  as  heard.  But  none  of  your  words  will  be  heard  by 
few,  and  none  will  be  forgotten,  for  five  or  six  hundred  years, 


98 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


if  you  build  well  You  will  talk  to  all  who  pass  by  ;  and  all 
those  little  sympathies,  those  freaks  of  fancy,  those  jests  in 
sione,  those  workings-out  of  problems  in  caprice,  will  occupy 
mind  after  mind  of  utterly  countless  multitudes,  long  after 
you  are  gone.  You  have  not,  like  authors,  to  plead  for  a 
hearing,  or  to  fear  oblivion.  Do  but  build  large  enough,  and 
carve  boldly  enough,  and  all  the  world  will  hear  you ;  they 
cannot  choose  but  look. 

I  do  not  mean  to  awe  you  by  this  thought ;  I  do  not  mean 
that  because  you  will  have  so  many  witnesses  and  watchers, 
you  are  never  to  jest,  or  do  anything  gaily  or  lightly ;  on  the 
'contrary,  I  have  pleaded,  from  the  beginning,  for  this  art  of 
yours,  especially  because  it  has  room  for  the  wrhole  of  your 
character — if  jest  is  in  you,  let  the  jest  be  jested  ;  if  math- 
ematical ingenuity  is  yours,  let  your  problem  be  put,  and 
your  solution  worked  out,  as  quaintly  as  you  choose  ;  above 
all,  see  that  your  work  is  easily  and  happily  done,  else  it  will 
never  make  anybody  else  happy  ;  but  while  you  thus  give  the 
rein  to  all  your  impulses,  see  that  those  impulses  be  headed 
and  centred  by  one  noble  impulse  ;  and  let  that  be  Love — 
triple  love — for  the  art  which  you  practise,  the  creation  in 
which  you  move,  and  the  creatures  to  whom  you  minister. 

I.  I  say,  first,  Love  for  the  art  which  you  practise.  Be  as- 
sured that  if  ever  any  other  motive  becomes  a  leading  one  in 
your  mind,  as  the  principal  one  for  exertion,  except  your  love 
of  art,  that  moment  it  is  all  over  with  your  art.  I  do  not  say 
you  are  to  desire  money,  nor  to  desire  fame,  nor  to  desire 
position  ;  you  cannot  but  desire  all  three ;  nay,  you  may — if 
you  are  willing  that  I  should  use  the  word  Love  in  a  dese- 
crated sense — love  ail  three  ;  that  is,  passionately  covet  them, 
yet  you  must  not  covet  or  love  them  in  the  first  place.  Men 
of  strong  passions  and  imaginations  must  always  care  a  great 
deal  for  anything  they  care  for  at  all ;  but  the  whole  question 
is  one  of  first  or  second.  Does  your  art  lead  you,  or  your 
gain  lead  you  ?  You  may  like  making  money  exceedingly  ; 
but  if  it  come  to  a  fair  question,  whether  you  are  to  make 
five  hundred  pounds  less  by  this  business,  or  to  spoil  your 
building,  and  you  choose  to  spoil  your  building,  there's  m 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


99 


end  of  you.  So  you  may  be  as  thirsty  for  fame  as  a  cricket 
is  for  cream  ;  but,  if  it  come  to  a  fair  question,  whether  you 
are  to  please  the  mob,  or  do  the  thing  as  you  know  it  ought 
to  be  done  ;  and  you  can't  do  both,  and  choose  to  please  the 
mob,  it's  all  over  with  you — there's  no  hope  for  you  ;  nothing 
that  you  can  do  will  ever  be  worth  a  man's  glance  as  he  passes 
by.  The  test  is  absolute,  inevitable — Is  your  art  first  with 
you  ?  Then  you  are  artists  ;  you  may  be,  after  you  have  made 
your  money,  misers  and  usurers  ;  you  may  be,  after  you  have 
got  your  fame,  jealous,  and  proud,  and  wretched,  and  base  : 
but  yet,  as  long  as  you  won't  spoil  your  ivork,  you  are  artists. 
On  the  other  hand — Is  your  money  first  with  you,  and  your 
fame  first  with  you  ?  Then,  you  may  be  very  charitable  with 
your  money,  and  very  magnificent  with  your  money,  and  very 
graceful  in  the  way  you  wear  your  reputation,  and  very  court- 
eous to  those  beneath  you,  and  very  acceptable  to  those  above 
you  ;  but  you  are  not  artists.   You  are  mechanics,  and  drudges. 

II.  You  must  love  the  creation  you  work  in  the  midst  of. 
For,  wholly  in  proportion  to  the  intensity  of  feeling  which 
you  bring  to  the  subject  you  have  chosen,  will  be  the  depth 
and  justice  of  our  perception  of  its  character.  And  this  depth 
of  feeling  is  not  to  be  gained  on  the  instant,  when  you  want 
to  bring  it  to  bear  on  this  or  that.  It  is  the  result  of  the  gen- 
eral habit  of  striving  to  feel  rightly ;  and,  among  thousands 
of  various  means  of  doing  this,  perhaps  the  one  I  ought  spe- 
cially to  name  to  you,  is  the  keeping  3rourselves  clear  of  petty 
and  mean  cares.  Whatever  you  do,  don't  be  anxious,  nor  fill 
your  heads  with  little  chagrins  and  little  desires.  I  have  just 
said,  that  you  may  be  great  artists,  and  yet  be  miserly  and 
jealous,  and  troubled  about  many  things.  So  you  may  be  ; 
but  I  said  also  that  the  miserliness  or  trouble  must  not  be  in 
your  hearts  all  day.  It  is  possible  that  you  may  get  a  habit 
of  saving  money  ;  or  it  is  possible,  at  a  time  of  great  trial, 
you  may  yield  to  the  temptation  of  speaking  unjustly  of  a 
rival, — and  you  will  shorten  your  powers  and  dim  your  sight 
even  by  this  ; — but  the  thing  that  you  have  to  dread  far  more 
than  any  such  unconscious  habit,  or  any  such  momentary  fall 
— is  the  constancy  of  small  emotions ; — the  anxiety  whether 


100 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Mr.  So-and-so  will  like  your  work  ;  whether  such  and  such  a 
workman  will  do  all  that  you  want  of  him,  and  so  on  ; — not 
wrong  feeling's  or  anxieties  in  themselves,  but  impertinent, 
and  wholly  incompatible  with  the  full  exercise  of  your  imag- 
ination. 

Keep  yourselves,  therefore,  quiet,  peaceful,  with  your  eyes 
open.  It  doesn't  matter  at  all  what  Mr.  So-and-so  thinks  of 
your  work  ;  but  it  matters  a  great  deal  what  that  bird  is  doing 
up  there  in  its  nest,  or  how  that  vagabond  child  at  the  street 
corner  is  managing  his  game  of  knuckle-down.  And  remem- 
ber, you  cannot  turn  aside  from  your  own  interests,  to  the 
birds'  and  the  children's  interests,  unless  you  have  long  before 
got  into  the  habit  of  loving  and  watching  birds  and  children  ; 
so  that  it  all  comes  at  last  to  the  forgetting  yourselves,  and 
the  living  out  of  yourselves,  in  the  calm  of  the  great  world, 
or  if  you  will,  in  its  agitation  ;  but  always  in  a  calm  of  your 
own  bringing.  Do  not  think  it  wasted  time  to  submit  your- 
selves to  any  influence  which  may  bring  upon  you  any  noble 
feeling.  Rise  early,  always  watch  the  sunrise,  and  the  way 
the  clouds  break  from  the  dawm  ;  you  will  cast  your  statue- 
draperies  in  quite  another  than  your  common  way,  when  the 
remembrance  of  that  cloud  motion  is  with  you,  and  of  the 
scarlet  vesture  of  the  morning.  Live  always  in  the  spring- 
time in  the  country  ;  you  do  not  know  what  leaf-form  means, 
unless  you  have  seen  the  buds  burst,  and  the  young  leaves 
breathing  low  in  the  sunshine,  and  wondering  at  the  first 
shower  of  rain.  But  above  all,  accustom  yourselves  to  look 
for,  and  to  love,  all  nobleness  of  gesture  and  feature  in  the 
human  form  ;  and  remember  that  the  highest  nobleness  is 
usually  among  the  aged,  the  poor,  and  the  infirm  ;  you  will 
find,  in  the  end,  that  it  is  not  the  strong  arm  of  the  soldier, 
nor  the  laugh  of  the  young  beauty,  that  are  the  best  studies 
for  you.  Look  at  them,  and  look  at  them  reverently  ;  but  be 
assured  that  endurance  is  nobler  than  strength,  and  patience 
than  beauty  ;  and  that  it  is  not  in  the  high  church  pews, 
where  the  gay  dresses  are,  but  in  the  church  free  seats,  where 
the  widows'  weeds  are,  that  you  may  see  the  faces  that  will 
tit  best  between  the  angels'  wings,  in  the  church  porch. 


IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE.  101 


HI.  And  therefore,  lastly,  and  chiefly,  you  must  love  the 
creatures  to  whom  you  minister,  your  fellow-men  ;  for,  if 
you  do  not  love  them,  not  only  will  you  be  little  interested 
in  the  passing  events  of  life,  but  in  all  your  gazing  at  hu- 
manity, you  will  be  apt  to  be  struck  only  by  outside  form, 
and  not  by  expression.  It  is  only  kindness  and  tender- 
ness which  will  ever  enable  you  to  see  what  beauty  there 
is  in  the  dark  eyes  that  are  sunk  with  weeping,  and  in  the 
paleness  of  those  fixed  faces  which  the  earth's  adversity  has 
compassed  about,  till  they  shine  in  their  patience  like  dying 
watchfires  through  twilight.  But  it  is  not  this  only  which 
makes  it  needful  for  you,  if  you  would  be  great,  to  be  also 
kind  ;  there  is  a  most  important  and  all-essential  reason  in  the 
very  nature  of  your  own  art.  So  soon  as  you  desire  to  build 
largely,  and  with  addition  of  noble  sculpture,  you  will  find 
that  your  work  must  be  associative.  You  cannot  carve  a  whole 
cathedral  yourself — you  can  carve  but  few  and  simple  parts  of 
it.  Either  your  own  work  must  be  disgraced  in  the  mass  of  the 
collateral  inferiority,  or  you  must  raise  your  fellow-designers  to 
correspondence  of  power.  If  you  have  genius,  you  will  your- 
selves take  the  lead  in  the  building  you  design  ;  you  will  carve 
its  porch  and  direct  its  disposition.  But  for  all  subsequent 
advancement  of  its  detail,  you  must  trust  to  the  agency  and 
the  invention  of  others  ;  and  it  rests  with  you  either  to  repress 
what  faculties  your  workmen  have,  into  cunning  subordination 
to  your  own  ;  or  to  rejoice  in  discovering  even  the  powers  that 
may  rival  you,  and  leading  forth  mind  after  mind  into  fellow- 
ship with  your  fancy,  and  association  with  your  fame. 

I  need  not  tell  you  that  if  you  do  the  first — if  you  endeavour 
to  depress  or  disguise  the  talents  of  your  subordinates — you 
are  lost ;  for  nothing  could  imply  more  darkly  and  decisively 
than  this,  that  your  art  and  your  work  were  not  beloved  by 
you  ;  that  it  was  your  own  prosperity  that  you  were  seeking, 
and  your  own  skill  only  that  you  cared  to  contemplate.  I  do 
not  say  that  you  must  not  be  jealous  at  all  ;  it  is  rarely  in 
human  nature  to  be  wholly  without  jealousy  ;  and  you  may  be 
forgiven  for  going  some  day  sadly  home,  when  you  find  some 
youth,  unpractised  and  unapproved,  giving  the  life-stroke  to 


102 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


his  work  which  you,  after  years  of  training,  perhaps,  cannot 
reach  ;  but  your  jealousy  must  not  conquer — your  love  of  your 
building  must  conquer,  helped  by  your  kindness  of  heart.  See 
— I  set  no  high  or  difficult  standard  before  you.  I  do  not 
say  that  you  are  to  surrender  your  pre-eminence  in  mere  un- 
selfish generosity.  But  I  do  say  that  you  must  surrender  your 
pre-eminence  in  your  love  of  your  building  helped  by  your 
kindness  ;  and  that  whomsoever  you  find  better  able  to  do  what 
will  adorn  it  than  you, — that  person  you  are  to  give  place  to  ; 
and  to  console  yourselves  for  the  humiliation,  first,  by  your 
joy  in  seeing  the  edifice  grow  more  beautiful  under  his  chisel, 
and  secondly,  by  your  sense  of  having  done  kindly  and  justly. 
But  if  you  are  morally  strong  enough  to  make  the  kindness 
and  justice  the  first  motive,  it  will  be  better ; — best  of  all, 
if  you  do  not  consider  it  as  kindness  at  all,  but  bare  and 
stern  justice  ;  for,  truly,  such  help  as  we  can  give  each 
other  in  this  world  is  a  debt  to  each  other  ;  and  the  man 
who  perceives  a  superiority  or  a  capacity  in  a  subordinate, 
and  neither  confesses,  nor  assists  it,  is  not  merely  the  with- 
holder  of  kindness,  but  the  committer  of  injury.  But  be 
the  motive  what  you  will,  only  see  that  you  do  the  thing ; 
and  take  the  joy  of  the  consciousness  that,  as  your  art  em- 
braces a  wider  field  than  all  others— and  addresses  a  vaster 
multitude  than  all  others — and  is  surer  of  audience  than  all 
others — so  it  is  profounder  and  holier  in  Fellowship  than 
all  others.  The  artist,  when  his  pupil  is  perfect,  must  see  him 
leave  his  side  that  he  may  declare  his  distinct,  perhaps  oppo- 
nent, skill.  Man  of  science  wrestles  with  man  of  science  for 
priority  of  discovery,  and  pursues  in  pangs  of  jealous  haste 
his  solitary  inquiry.  You  alone  are  called  by  kindness, — by 
necessity, — by  equity,  to  fraternity  of  toil ;  and  thus,  in  those 
misty  and  massive  piles  which  rise  above  the  domestic  roofs 
of  our  ancient  cities,  there  was — there  may  be  again — a  mean- 
ing more  profound  and  true  than  any  that  fancy  so  commonly 
has  attached  to  them.  Men  say  their  pinnacles  point  to  heaven. 
"Why,  so  does  every  tree  that  buds,  and  every  bird  that  rises 
as  it  sings.  Men  say  their  aisles  are  good  for  worship.  Why, 
so  is  every  mountain  glen,  and  rough  sea-shore.  But  this  they 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


103 


have  of  distinct  and  indisputable  glory, — that  their  mighty 
walls  were  never  raised,  and  never  shall  be,  but  by  men  who 
love  and  aid  each  other  in  their  weakness  ; — that  all  their  in- 
terlacing strength  of  vaulted  stone  has  its  foundation  upon 
the  stronger  arches  of  manly  fellowship,  and  all  their  changing 
grace  of  depressed  or  lifted  pinnacle  owes  its  cadence  and 
completeness  to  sweeter  symmetries  of  human  soul. 


LECTURE  V. 

THE  WORK  OF  IRON,   IN  NATURE,   ART,   AND  POLICY. 

A  Lecture  Delivered  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  February,  1858. 

When  first  I  heard  that  you  wished  me  to  address  }rou  this 
evening,  it  was  a  matter  of  some  doubt  with  me  whether  I 
could  find  any  subject  that  would  possess  any  sufficient  in- 
terest for  you  to  justify  my  bringing  you  out  of  your  comfort- 
able houses  on  a  winter's  night.  When  I  venture  to  speak 
about  my  own  special  business  of  art,  it  is  almost  always  be- 
fore students  of  art,  among  whom  I  may  sometimes  permit 
myself  to  be  dull,  if  I  can  feel  that  I  am  useful :  but  a  mere 
talk  about  art,  especially  without  examples  to  refer  to  (and  I 
have  been  unable  to  prepare  any  careful  illustrations  for  this 
lecture),  is  seldom  of  much  interest  to  a  general  audience. 
As  I  was  considering  what  you  might  best  bear  with  me  in 
speaking  about,  there  came  naturally  into  my  mind  a  subject 
connected  with  the  origin  and  present  prosperity  of  the  town 
you  live  in  ;  and,  it  seemed  to  me,  in  the  out-branchings  of  it, 
capable  of  a  very  general  interest.  When,  long  ago  (I  am 
afraid  to  think  how  long),  Tunbridge  Wells  was  my  Switzer- 
land, and  I  used  to  be  brought  down  here  in  the  summer,  a 
sufficiently  active  child,  rejoicing  in  the  hope  of  clambering 
sandstone  cliffs  of  stupendous  height  above  the  common, 
there  used  sometimes,  as,  I  suppose,  there  are  in  the  lives  of 
all  children  at  the  Wells,  to  be  dark  days  in  my  life — days  of 
condemnation  to  the  pantiles  and  band — -under  which  calam- 


104 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


ities  my  only  consolation  used  to  be  in  watching,  at  every  turn 
in  my  walk,  the  welling  forth  of  the  spring  over  the  orange 
rim  of  its  marble  basin.  The  memory  of  the  clear  water, 
sparkling  over  its  saffron  stain,  came  back  to  me  as  the 
strongest  image  connected  with  the  place  ;  and  it  struck  me 
that  you  might  not  be  unwilling,  to-night,  to  think  a  little 
over  the  full  significance  of  that  saffron  stain,  and  of  the 
power,  in  other  ways  and  other  functions,  of  the  steelly  ele- 
ment to  which  so  many  here  owe  returning  strength  and  life ; 
— chief  as  it  has  been  always,  and  is  yet  more  and  more  mark- 
edly so  day  by  day,  among  the  precious  gifts  of  the  earth. 

The  subject  is,  of  course,  too  wide  to  be  more  than  suggest- 
ively treated  ;  and  even  ray  suggestions  must  be  few,  and 
drawn  chiefly  from  my  own  fields  of  work ;  nevertheless,  I 
think  I  shall  have  time  to  indicate  some  courses  of  thought 
which  you  may  afterwards  follow  oat  for  yourselves  if  they  in- 
terest you  ;  and  so  I  will  not  shrink  from  the  full  scope  of  the 
subject  which  I  have  announced  to  you — the  functions  oi 
Iron,  in  Nature,  Art,  and  Policy. 

Without  more  preface,  I  will  take  up  the  first  head. 

I.  Iron  in  Nature. — You  all  probably  know  that  the  ochreous 
stain,  which,  perhaps,  is  often  thought  to  spoil  the  basin  of 
your  spring,  is  iron  in  a  state  of  rust :  and  when  you  see 
rusty  iron  in  other  places  you  generally  think,  not  only  that  it 
spoils  the  places  it  stains,  but  that  it  is  spoiled  itself — that 
rusty  iron  is  spoiled  iron. 

For  most  of  our  uses  it  generally  is  so ;  and  because  wo 
cannot  use  a  rusty  knife  or  razor  so  well  as  a  polished  one, 
we  suppose  it  to  be  a  great  defect  in  iron  that  it  is  subject  to 
rust.  But  not  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  the  most  perfect  and 
useful  state  of  it  is  that  ochreous  stain  ;  and  therefore  it  is 
endowed  with  so  ready  a  disposition  to  get  itself  into  that 
state.  It  is  not  a  fault  in  the  iron,  but  a  virtue,  to  be  so  fond 
of  getting  rusted,  for  in  that  condition  it  fulfils  its  most  im- 
portant functions  in  the  universe,  and  most  kindly  duties  to 
mankind.  Nay,  in  a  certain  sense,  and  almost  a  literal  one, 
we  may  say  that  iron  rusted  is  Living  ;  but  when  pure  or 
polished,  Dead.    You  all  probably  know  that  in  the  mixed 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  AR7\  AND  POLICY. 


105 


air  we  breathe,  the  part  of  it  essentially  needful  to  us  is  called 
oxygen  ;  and  that  this  substance  is  to  all  animals,  in  the  most 
accurate  sense  of  the  word,  "breath  of  life."  The  nervous 
power  of  life  is  a  different  thing  ;  but  the  supporting  element 
of  the  breath,  without  which  the  blood,  and  therefore  the  life, 
cannot  be  nourished,  is  this  oxygen.  Now  it  is  this  very  s*ame 
air  which  the  iron  breathes  when  it  gets  rusty.  It  takes  the 
oxygen  from  the  atmosphere  as  eagerly  as  we  do,  though  it 
uses  it  differently.  The  iron  keeps  all  that  it  gets  ;  we,  and 
other  animals,  part  writh  it  again ;  but  the  metal  absolutely 
keeps  what  it  has  once  received  of  this  aerial  gift ;  and  the 
ochreous  dust  which  we  so  much  despise  is,  in  fact,  just  so 
much  nobler  than  pure  iron,  in  so  far  as  it  is  iron  and  the  air. 
Nobler,  and  more  useful — for,  indeed,  as  I  shall  be  able  to 
show  you  presently — the  main  service  of  this  metal,  and  of  all 
other  metals,  to  us,  is  not  in  making  knives,  and  scissors,  and 
pokers,  and  pans,  but  in  making  the  ground  we  feed  from, 
and  nearly  all  the  substances  first  needful  to  our  existence. 
For  these  are  all  nothing  but  metals  and  oxygen — metals  with 
breath  put  into  them.  Sand,  lime,  clay,  and  the  rest  of  the 
earths— potash  and  soda,  and  the  rest  of  the  alkalies — are  all 
of  them  metals  which  have  undergone  this,  so  to  speak,  vital 
change,  and  have  been  rendered  fit  for  the  service  of  man  by 
permanent  unity  with  the  purest  air  which  he  himself 
breathes.  There  is  only  one  metal  which  does  not  rust 
readily  ;  and  that,  in  its  influence  on  Man  hitherto,  has  caused 
Death  rather  than  Life  ;  it  will  not  be  put  to  its  right  use  till 
it  is  made  a  pavement  of,  and  so  trodden  under  foot. 

Is  there  not  something  striking  in  this  fact,  considered 
largely  as  one  of  the  types,  or  lessons,  furnished  by  the  in- 
animate creation  ?  Here  you  have  your  hard,  bright,  cold, 
lifeless  metal — good  enough  for  swords  and  scissors — but  not 
for  food.  You  think,  perhaps,  that  your  iron  is  wonderfully 
useful  in  a  pure  form,  but  how  would  you  like  the  world,  if  all 
your  meadows,  instead  of  grass,  grew  nothing  but  iron  wire — 
it  all  your  arable  ground^  instead  of  being  made  of  sand  a&ti 
clay,  were  suddenly  turned  into  fiat  surfaces  of  steel — if  ilia 
whole  earth,  instead  of  its  green  and  glowing  sphere,  rich 


106 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


with  forest  and  flower,  showed  nothing  but  the  image  of  the 
vast  furnace  of  a  ghastly  engine — a  globe  of  black,  lifeless, 
excoriated  metal  ?  It  would  be  that, — probably  it  was  once 
that ;  but  assuredly  it  would  be,  were  it  not  that  all  the  sub- 
stance of  which  it  is  made  sucks  and  breathes  the  brilliancy 
of  the  atmosphere;  and  as  it  breathes,  softening  from  its 
merciless  hardness,  it  falls  into  fruitful  and  beneficent  dust ; 
gathering  itself  again  into  the  earths  from  which  we  feed,  and 
the  stones  with  which  we  build  ; — -into  the  rocks  that  frame 
the  mountains,  and  the  sands  that  bind  the  sea. 

Hence,  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  take  up  the  most  insig- 
nificant pebble  at  your  feet,  without  being  able  to  read,  if  you 
like,  this  curious  lesson  in  it.  You  look  upon  it  at  first  as  if 
it  were  earth  only.  Nay,  it  answers,  "  I  am  not  earth — I  am 
earth  and  air  in  one ;  part  of  that  blue  heaven  which  you 
love,  and  long  for,  is  already  in  me  ;  it  is  all  my  life — without 
it  I  should  be  nothing,  and  able  for  nothing  ;  I  could  not  min- 
ister to  you,  nor  nourish  you — I  should  be  a  cruel  and  help- 
less thing  ;  but,  because  there  is,  according  to  my  need  and 
place  in  creation,  a  kind  of  soul  in  me,  I  have  become  capable 
of  good,  and  helpful  in  the  circles  of  vitality. " 

Thus  far  the  same  interest  attaches  to  all  the  earths,  and 
all  the  metals  of  which  they  are  made  ;  but  a  deeper  interest, 
and  larger  beneficence  belong  to  that  ochreous  earth  of  iron 
which  stains  the  marble  of  your  springs.  It  stains  much  be- 
sides that  marble.  It  stains  the  great  earth  wheresoever  you 
can  see  it,  far  and  wide — it  is  the  colouring  substance  ap- 
pointed to  colour  the  globe  for  the  sight,  as  well  as  subdue  it 
to  the  service  of  man.  You  have  just  seen  your  hills  covered 
with  snow,  and,  perhaps,  have  enjoyed,  at  first,  the  contrast 
of  their  fair  white  with  the  dark  blocks  of  pine  woods ;  but 
have  you  ever  considered  how  you  would  like  them  always 
white — not  pure  white,  but  dirty  white — the  white  of  thaw, 
with  all  the  chill  of  snow  in  it,  but  none  of  its  brightness  ? 
That  is  what  the  colour  of  the  earth  would  be  without  its 
iron  ;  that  would  be  its  colour,  not  here  or  there  only,  but  in 
all  places,  and  at  all  times.  Follow  out  that  idea  till  you  get 
it  in  some  detail.    Think  first  of  your  pretty  gravel  walks  iu 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY.  10? 


your  gardens,  yellow  and  fine,  like  plots  of  sunshine  between 
the  flower-beds  ;  fancy  them  all  suddenly  turned  to  the 
colour  of  ashes.  That  is  what  they  would  be  without  iron 
ochre.  Think  of  your  winding  walks  over  the  common,  as 
warm  to  the  eye  as  they  are  dry  to  the  foot,  and  imagine 
them  all  laid  down  suddenly  with  gray  cinders.  Then  pass 
beyond  the  common  into  the  country,  and  pause  at  the  first 
ploughed  field  that  you  see  sweeping  up  the  hill  sides  in  the 
sun,  with  its  deep  brown  furrows,  and  wealth  of  ridges  all 
a-glow,  heaved  aside  by  the  ploughshare,  like  deep  folds  of  a 
mantle  of  russet  velvet — fancy  it  all  changed  suddenly  into 
grisly  furrows  in  a  field  of  mud.  That  is  what  it  would  be 
without  iron.  Pass  on,  in  fancy,  over  hill  and  dale,  till  you 
reach  the  bending  line  of  the  sea  shore ;  go  down  upon  its 
breezy  beach — watch  the  white  foam  flashing  among  the  amber 
of  it,  and  all  the  blue  sea  embayed  in  belts  of  gold :  then 
fancy  those  circlets  of  far  sweeping  shore  suddenly  put  into 
mounds  of  mourning — all  those  golden  sands  turned  into  gray 
slime,  the  fairies  no  more  able  to  call  to  each  other,  "  Come 
unto  these  yellow  sands  ; "  but,  "  Gome  unto  these  drab 
sands. "    That  is  what  they  would  be,  without  iron. 

Iron  is  in  some  sort,  therefore,  the  sunshine  and  light  of 
landscape,  so  far  as  that  light  depends  on  the  ground  ;  but  it 
is  a  source  of  another  kind  of  sunshine,  quite  as  important  to 
us  in  the  way  we  live  at  present — sunshine,  not  of  landscape^ 
but  of  dwelling-place. 

In  these  days  of  swift  locomotion  I  may  doubtless  assume 
that  most  of  my  audience  have  been  somewhere  out  of  Eng- 
land— have  been  in  Scotland,  or  France,  or  Switzerland. 
Whatever  may  have  been  their  impression,  on  returning  to 
their  own  country,  of  its  superiority  or  inferiority  in  other 
respects,  they  cannot  but  have  felt  one  thing  about  it — the 
comfortable  look  of  its  towns  and  villages.  Foreign  towns 
are  often  very  picturesque,  very  beautiful,  but  they  never  have 
quite  that  look  of  warm  self-sufficiency  and  wholesome  quiet 
with  which  our  villages  nestle  themselves  down  among  the 
green  fields.  If  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  examine  into  the 
sources  of  this  impression,  you  will  find  that  by  far  the  greater 


108 


till:  two  paths. 


part  of  that  warm  and  satisfactory  appearance  depends  upon 
the  rich  scarlet  colour  of  the  bricks  and  tiles.  It  does  not 
belong  to  the  neat  building — very  neat  building  has  an  un- 
fortable  rather  than  a  comfortable  look — but  it  depends  on 
the  warm  building ;  our  villages  are  dressed  in  red  tiles  as 
our  old  Women  are  in  red  cloaks  ;  and  it  does  not  matter  how 
worn  the  cloaks,  or  how  bent  and  bowed  the  roof  may  be,  so 
long  as  there  are  no  holes  in  either  one  or  the  other,  and  the 
sobered  but  unextinguishable  colour  still  glows  in  the  shadow 
of  the  hood,  and  burns  among  the  green  mosses  of  the  gable. 
And  wrhat  do  you  suppose  dyes  your  tiles  of  cottage  roof  ? 
You  don't  paint  them.  It  is  nature  who  puts  all  that  lovely 
vermilion  into  the  clay  for  you  ;  and  all  that  lovely  vermilion 
is  this  oxide  of  iron.  Think,  therefore,  what  your  streets  of 
towns  would  become — ugly  enough,  indeed,  already,  some  of 
them,  but  still  comfortable-looking — if  instead  of  that  warm 
brick  red,  the  houses  became  all  pepper-and-salt  colour.  Fancy 
your  country  villages  changing  from  that  homely  scarlet  of 
theirs  which,  in  its  sweet  suggestion  of  laborious  peace,  is  as 
honourable  as  the  soldiers'  scarlet  of  laborious  battle — sup- 
pose ail  those  cottage  roofs,  I  say,  turned  at  once  into  the 
colour  of  unbaked  clay,  the  colour  of  street  gutters  in  rainy 
weather.    That's  what  they  would  be,  without  iron. 

There  is,  however,  yet  another  effect  of  colour  in  our  Eng- 
lish country  towns  which,  perhaps,  you  may  not  all  yourselves 
have  noticed,  but  for  which  you  must  take  the  word  of  a 
sketcher.  They  are  not  so  often  merely  warm  scarlet  as  they 
are  warm  purple  ;— a  more  beautiful  colour  still  :  and  they 
owe  this  colour  to  a  mingling  with  the  vermilion  of  the  deep 
grayish  or  purple  hue  of  our  fine  Welsh  slates  on  the  more 
respectable  roofs,  made  more  blue  still  by  the  colour  of  in- 
tervening atmosphere.  If  you  examine  one  of  these  Welsh 
slates  freshly  broken,  you  will  find  its  purple  colour  clear  and 
vivid  ;  and  although  never  strikingly  so  after  it  has  been  long 
exposed  to  weather,  it  always  retains  enough  of  the  tint  to 
give  rich  harmonies  of  distant  purple  in  opposition  to  the 
green  of  our  woods  and  fields.  Whatever  brightness  or  power 
there  is  in  the  hue  is  entirely  owing  to  the  oxide  of  iron. 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


109 


Without  it  the  slates  would  either  be  pale  stone  colour,  or 
cold  gray,  or  black. 

Thus  far  we  have  only  been  considering  the  use  and  pleas- 
antness of  iron  in  the  common  earth  of  clay.  But  there  are 
three  kinds  of  earth  which  in  mixed  mass  and  prevalent 
quantity,  form  the  world.  Those  are,  in  common  language, 
the  earths  of  clay,  of  lime,  and  of  flint.  Many  other  elements 
are  mingled  with  these  in  sparing  quantities  ;  but  the  great 
frame  and  substance  of  the  earth  is  made  of  these  three,  so 
that  wherever  you  stand  on  solid  ground,  in  any  country  of 
the  globe,  the  thing  that  is  mainly  under  your  feet  will  be 
either  clay,  limestone,  or  some  condition  of  the  earth  of  flint, 
mingled  with  both. 

These  being  what  we  have  usually  to  deal  with,  Nature  seems 
to  have  set  herself  to  make  these  three  substances  as  interest- 
ing to  us,  and  as  beautiful  for  us,  as  she  can.  The  clay,  being 
a  soft  and  changeable  substance,  she  doesn't  take  much 
pains  about,  as  we  have  seen,  till  it  is  baked  ;  she  brings  the 
colour  into  it  only  when  it  receives  a  permanent  form.  But 
the  limestone  and  flint  she  paints,  in  her  own  way,  in  their 
native  state  :  and  her  object  in  painting  them  seems  to  be 
much  the  same  as  in  her  painting  of  flowers  ;  to  draw  us, 
careless  and  idle  human  creatures,  to  watch  her  a  little,  and 
see  what  she  is  about — that  being  on  the  whole  good  for 
us, — her  children.  For  Nature  is  always  carrying  on  very 
strange  work  with  this  limestone  and  flint  of  hers  :  laying 
down  beds  of  them  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  building 
islands  out  of  the  sea  ;  filling  chinks  and  veins  in  moun- 
tains with  curious  treasures  ;  petrifying  mosses,  and  trees, 
and  shells ;  in  fact,  carrying  on  all  sorts  of  business, 
subterranean  or  submarine,  which  it  would  be  highly  de- 
sirable for  us,  who  profit  and  live  by  it,  to  notice  as  it  goes 
on.  And  apparently  to  lead  us  to  do  this,  she  makes  picture- 
books  for  us  of  limestone  and  flint ;  and  tempts  us,  like 
foolish  children  as  we  are,  to  read  her  books  by  the  pretty 
colours  in  them.  The  pretty  colours  in  her  limestone-book^ 
form  those  variegated  marbles  which  all  mankind  have  taken 
delight  to  polish  and  build  with  from  the  beginning  of  time  ; 


110 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


and  the  pretty  colours  in  her  flint-books  form  those  agates 
jaspers,  cornelians,  bloodstones,  onyxes,  cairngorms,  chryso- 
prases,  which  men  have  in  like  manner  taken  delight  to  cut, 
and  polish,  and  make  ornaments  of,  from  the  beginning  of 
time  ;  and  yet,  so  much  of  babies  are  they,  and  so  fond  of 
looking  at  the  pictures  instead  of  reading  the  book,  that  1 
question .  whether,  after  six  thousand  years  of  cutting  and 
polishing,  there  are  above  two  or  three  people  out  of  any 
given  hundred,  who  know,  or  care  to  know,  how  a  bit  of  agate 
or  a  bit  of  marble  was  made,  or  painted. 

How  it  was  made,  may  not  be  always  very  easy  to  say  ;  but 
with  what  it  was  painted  there  is  no  manner  of  question.  All 
those  beautiful  violet  veinings  and  variegations  of  the  marbles 
of  Sicily  and  Spain,  the  glowing  orange  and  amber  colours  of 
those  of  Siena,  the  deep  russet  of  the  Eosso  antico,  and  the 
blood-colour  of  all  the  precious  jaspers  that  enrich  the  tem- 
ples of  Italy  ;  and,  finally,  all  the  lovely  transitions  of  tint  in 
the  pebbles  of  Scotland  and  the  Ehine,  which  form,  though 
not  the  most  precious,  by  far  the  most  interesting  portion  of 
our  modern  jewellers'  work  ; — all  these  are  painted  by  nature 
with  this  one  material  only,  variously  proportioned  and  ap- 
plied— the  oxide  of  iron  that  stains  your  Tunbridge  springs. 

But  this  is  not  all,  nor  the  best  part  of  the  work  of  iron.  Its 
service  in  producing  "these  beautiful  stones  is  only  rendered 
to  rich  people,  who  can  afford  to  quarry  and  polish  them. 
But  Nature  paints  for  all  the  world,  poor  and  rich  together  : 
and  while,  therefore,  she  thus  adorns  the  innermost  rocks  of 
her  hills,  to  tempt  your  investigation,  or  indulge  your  luxury, 
— she  paints,  far  more  carefully,  the  outsides  of  the  hills, 
which  are  for  the  eyes  of  the  shepherd  and  the  ploughman. 
I  spoke  just  now  of  the  effect  in  the  roofs  of  our  villages  of 
their  purple  slates  :  but  if  the  slates  are  beautiful  even  in  their 
flat  and  formal  rows  on  house-roofs,  much  more  are  they 
beautiful  on  the  rugged  crests  and  flanks  of  their  native 
mountains.  Have  you  ever  considered,  in  speaking  as  we  do 
so  often  of  distant  blue  hills,  what  it  is  that  makes  them 
blue  ?  To  a  certain  extent  it  is  distance  ;  but  distance  alone 
will  not  do  it.   Many  hills  look  white,  however  distant.  That 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


Ill 


lovely  dark  purple  colour  of  our  Welsh  and  Highland  hills  is 
owing,  not  to  their  distance  merely,  but  to  their  rocks.  Some 
of  their  rocks  are,  indeed,  too  dark  to  be  beautiful,  being 
black  or  ashy  gray  ;  owing  to  imperfect  and  porous  structure. 
But  when  you  see  this  dark  colour  dashed  with  russet  and 
blue,  and  coming  out  in  masses  among  the  green  ferns,  so 
purple  that  you  can  hardly  tell  at  first  whether  it  is  rock  or 
heather,  then  you  must  thank  your  old  Tunbridge  friend,  the 
oxide  of  iron. 

But  this  is  not  all.  It  is  necessary  for  the  beauty  of  hill 
scenery  that  Nature  should  colour  not  only  her  soft  rocks, 
but  her  hard  ones  :  and  she  colours  them  with  the  same  thing, 
only  more  beautifully.  Perhaps  you  have  wondered  at  my 
use  of  the  word  "  purple,"  so  often  of  stones  ;  but  the  Greeks, 
and  still  more  the  Romans,  who  had  profound  respect  for 
purple,  used  it  of  stone  long  ago.  You  have  all  heard  of 
"  porphyry  "  as  among  the  most  precious  of  the  harder  mas- 
sive stones.  The  colour  which  gave  it  that  noble  name,  as  well 
as  that  which  gives  the  flush  to  all  the  rosy  granite  of  Egypt — 
yes,  and  to  the  rosiest  summits  of  the  Alps  themselves — is 
still  owing  to  the  same  substance — your  humble  oxide  of  iron. 

And  last  of  all : 

A  nobler  colour  than  all  these — the  noblest  colour  ever 
seen  on  this  earth — one  which  belongs  to  a  strength  greater 
than  that  of  the  Egyptian  granite,  and  to  a  beauty  greater 
than  that  of  the  sunset  or  the  rose — is  still  mysteriously  con- 
nected with  the  presence  of  this  dark  iron.  I  believe  it  is  not- 
ascertained  on  what  the  crimson  of  blood  actually  depends  ; 
but  the  colour  is  connected,  of  course,  with  its  vitality,  and 
that  vitality  with  the  existence  of  iron  as  one  of  its  substantial 
elements. 

Is  it  not  strange  to  find  this  stern  and  strong  metal  mingled 
so  delicately  in  our  human  life,  that  we  cannot  even  blush 
without  its  help  ?  Think  of  it,  my  fair  and  gentle  hearers  ; 
how  terrible  the  alternative — sometimes  you  have  actually  no 
choice  but  to  be  brazen-faced,  or  iron-faced ! 

In  this  slight  review  of  some  of  the  functions  of  the  metal, 
you  observe  that  I  confine  myself  strictly  to  its  operations  as 


112 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


a  colouring  element.  I  should  only  confuse  your  conception 
of  the  facts,  if  I  endeavoured  to  describe  its  uses  as  a  sub- 
stantial  element,  either  in  strengthening  rocks,  or  influencing 
vegetation  by  the  decomposition  of  rocks.  I  have  not,  there- 
fore, even  glanced  at  any  of  the  more  serious  uses  of  the 
metal  in  the  economy  of  nature.  But  what  I  wish  you  to  carry 
clearly  away  with  you  is  the  remembrance  that  in  all  these 
uses  the  metal  would  be  nothing  without  the  air.  The  pure 
metal  has  no  power,  and  never  occurs  in  nature  at  all  except 
in  meteoric  stones,  whose  fall  no  one  can  account  for,  and 
which  are  useless  after  they  have  fallen  :  in  the  necessary 
work  of  the  world,  the  iron  is  invariably  joined  with  the 
oxygen,  and  would  be  capable  of  no  service  or  beauty  what- 
ever without  it. 

II  Iron  in  Art. — Passing,  then,  from  the  offices  of  the 
metal  in  the  operations  of  nature  to  its  uses  in  the  hands  of 
man,  you  must  remember,  in  the  outset,  that  the  type  which 
has  been  thus  given  you,  by  the  lifeless  metal,  of  the  action 
of  body  and  soul  together,  has  noble  antitype  in  the  operation 
of  all  human  power.  All  art  worthy  the  name  is  the  energy — 
neither  of  the  human  body  alone,  nor  of  the  human  soul  alone, 
but  of  both  united,  one  guiding  the  other  :  good  craftsman- 
ship and  work  of  the  fingers,  joined  writh  good  emotion  and 
work  of  the  heart. 

There  is  no  good  art,  nor  possible  judgment  of  art,  wThen 
these  two  are  not  united  ;  yet  we  are  constantly  trying  to 
separate  them.  Our  amateurs  cannot  be  persuaded  but  that 
they  may  produce  some  kind  of  art  by  their  fancy  or  sensi- 
bility, without  going  through  the  necessary  manual  toil.  That 
is  entirely  hopeless.  Without  a  certain  number,  and  that  a 
very  great  number,  of  steady  acts  of  hand — a  practice  as  care- 
ful and  constant  as  would  be  necessary  to  learn  any  other 
manual  business — no  drawing  is  possible.  On  the  other  side, 
the  wTorkman,  and  those  who  employ  him,  are  continually  try- 
ing to  produce  art  by  trick  or  habit  of  fingers,  without  using 
their  fancy  or  sensibility.  That  also  is  hopeless.  Without 
mingling  of  heart-passion  with  hand-power,  no  art  is  possible.* 
*  No  tine  art,  that  is.    See  the  previous  definition  of  fine  art  at  p.  38, 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


113 


The  highest  art  unites  both  in  their  intensest  degrees  :  the 
action  of  the  hand  at  its  finest,  with  that  of  the  heart  at  its 
fullest, 

Hence  it  follows  that  the  utmost  power  of  art  can  only  be 
given  in  a  material  capable  of  receiving  and  retaining  the  in- 
fluence of  the  subtlest  touch  of  the  human  hand.  That  hand 
is  the  most  perfect  agent  of  material  power  existing  in  the 
universe ;  and  its  full  subtlety  can  only  be  shown  when  the 
material  it  works  on,  or  with,  is  entirely  yielding.  The  chords 
of  a  perfect  instrument  will  receive  it,  but  not  of  an  imperfect 
one  ;  the  softly  bending  point  of  the  hair  pencil,  and  soft 
melting  of  colour,  will  receive  it,  but  not  even  the  chalk  or  pen 
point,  still  less  the  steel  point,  chisel,  or  marble.  The  hand 
of  a  sculptor  may,  indeed,  be  as  subtle  as  that  of  a  painter,  but 
all  its  subtlety  is  not  bestowable  nor  expressible :  the  touch  of 
Titian,  Correggio,  or  Turner/'  is  a  far  more  marvellous  piece  of 
nervous  action  than  can  be  shown  in  anything  but  colour,  or 
in  the  very  highest  conditions  of  executive  expression  in  mu- 
sic. In  proportion  as  the  material  worked  upon  is  less  delicate, 
the  execution  necessarily  becomes  lower,  and  the  art  with  it. 
This  is  one  main  principle  of  all  work.  Another  is,  that  what- 
ever the  material  you  choose  to  work  with,  your  art  is  base  if 
it  does  not  bring  out  the  distinctive  qualities  of  that  material. 

The  reason  of  this  second  law  is,  that  if  you  don't  want  the 
qualities  of  the  substance  you  use,  you  ought  to  use  some 
other  substance  :  it  can  be  only  affectation,  and  desire  to  dis- 
play your  skill,  that  lead  you  to  employ  a  refractory  substance, 
and  therefore  your  art  will  all  be  base.  Glass,  for  instance, 
is  eminently,  in  its  nature,  transparent.  If  you  don't  want 
transparency,  let  the  glass  alone.  Do  not  try  to  make  a  win- 
dow look  like  an  opaque  picture,  but  take  an  opaque  ground  to 
begin  with.  Again,  marble  is  eminently  a  solid  and  massive 
substance.  Unless  you  wTant  mass  and  solidity,  don't  work  in 
marble.  If  you  wish  for  lightness,  take  wood  ;  if  for  freedom, 
take  stucco  ;  if  for  ductility,  take  glass.  Don't  try  to  carve 
feathers,  or  trees,  or  nets,  or  foam,  out  of  marble.  Carve  white 
limbs  and  broad  breasts  only  out  of  that. 

*  See  Appendix  IV.,  <k  Subtlety  of  Hand." 


114 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


So  again,  iron  is  eminently  a  ductile  and  tenacious  substance 
■ — tenacious  above  all  things,  ductile  more  than  most.  When 
you  want  tenacity,  therefore,  and  involved  form,  take  iron. 
It  is  eminently  made  for  that.  It  is  the  material  given  to  the 
sculptor  as  the  companion  of  marble,  with  a  message,  as  plain 
as  it  can  well  be  spoken,  from  the  lips  of  the  earth-mother, 
"Here's  for  you  to  cut,  and  here's  for  you  to  hammer.  Shape 
this,  and  twist  that.  What  is  solid  and  simple,  carve  out ;  what 
is  thin  and  entangled,  beat  out.  I  give  you  all  kinds  of  forms 
to  be  delighted  in  ; — fluttering  leaves  as  well  as  fair  bodies  ; 
twisted  branches  as  well  as  open  brows.  The  leaf  and  the 
branch  you  may  beat  and  drag  into  their  imagery  :  the  body 
and  brow  you  shall  reverently  touch  into  their  imagery.  And 
if  you  choose  rightly  and  work  rightly,  what  you  do  shall  be 
safe  afterwards.  Your  slender  leaves  shall  not  break  off  in  my 
tenacious  iron,  though  they  may  be  rusted  a  little  with  an  iron 
autumn.  Your  broad  surfaces  shall  not  be  unsmoothed  in  my 
pure  crystalline  marble — no  decay  shall  touch  them.  But  if 
you  carve  in  the  marble  what  will  break  with  a  touch,  or  mould 
in  the  metal  what  a  stain  of  rust  or  verdigris  will  spoil,  it  is 
your  fault — not  mine." 

These  are  the  main  principles  in  this  matter  ;  which,  like 
nearly  all  other  right  principles  in  art,  we  moderns  delight  in 
contradicting  as  directly  and  specially  as  may  be.  We  con- 
tinually look  for,  and  praise,  in  our  exhibitions  the  sculpture 
of  veils,  and  lace,  and  thin  leaves,  and  all  kinds  of  impossible 
things  pushed  as  far  as  possible  in  the  fragile  stone,  for  the 
sake  of  showing  the  sculptor's  dexterity.*  On  the  other  hand, 

*  I  do  not  mean  to  attach  any  degree  of  blame  to  the  effort  to  repre- 
sent leafage  in  marble  for  certain  expressive  purposes.  The  later  works 
of  Mr.  Munro  have  depended  for  some  of  their  most  tender  thoughts 
on  a  delicate  and  skilful  use  of  such  accessories.  And  in  general,  leaf 
sculpture  is  good  and  admirable,  if  it  renders,  as  in  Gothic  work,  the 
grace  and  lightness  of  the  leaf  by  the  arrangement  of  light  and  shadow 
— supporting  the  masses  well  by  strength  of  stone  below  ;  but  all  carv- 
ing is  base  which  proposes  to  itself  slightness  as  an  aim,  and  tries  to  imi- 
tate the  absolute  thinness  of  thin  or  slight  things,  as  much  modern  wood 
carving  does.  I  saw  in  Italy,  a  year  or  two  ago,  a  marble  sculpture  of 
birds'  nests. 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


115 


#e  cast  our.  iron  into  bars — brittle,  though  an  inch  thick — » 
sharpen  them  at  the  ends,  and  consider  fences,  and  other  work, 
made  of  such  materials,  decorative  !  I  do  not  believe  it  would 
be  easy  to  calculate  the  amount  of  mischief  done  to  our  taste 
in  England  by  that  fence  iron-work  of  ours  alone.  If  it  were 
asked  of  us  by  a  single  characteristic,  to  distinguish  the  dwell- 
ings of  a  country  into  two  broad  sections ;  and  to  set,  on  one 
side,  the  places  where  people  were,  for  the  most  part,  simple, 
happy,  benevolent,  and  honest ;  and,  on  the  other  side,  the 
places  where  at  least  a  great  number  of  the  people  were  so- 
phisticated, unkind,  uncomfortable,  and  unprincipled,  there  is, 
I  think,  one  feature  that  you  could  fix  upon  as  a  positive  test : 
the  uncomfortable  and  unprincipled  parts  of  a  country  would 
be  the  parts  where  people  lived  among  iron  railings,  and  the 
comfortable  and  principled  parts  where  they  had  none.  A 
broad  generalization,  you  will  say  !  Perhaps  a  little  too  broad  ; 
yet,  in  all  sobriety,  it  will  come  truer  than  you  think.  Con- 
sider every  other  kind  of  fence  or  defence,  and  you  will  find 
some  virtue  in  it ;  but  in  the  iron  railing  none.  There  is,  first, 
your  castle  rampart  of  stone — somewhat  too  grand  to  be  con- 
sidered here  among  our  types  of  fencing  ;  next,  your  garden 
or  park  wall  of  brick,  which  has  indeed  often  an  unkind  look 
on  the  outside,  but  there  is  more  modesty  in  it  than  unkind- 
ness.  It  generally  means,  not  that  the  builder  of  it  wants  to 
shut  you  out  from  the  view  of  his  garden,  but  from  the  view 
of  himself  :  it  is  a  frank  statement  that  as  he  needs  a  certain 
portion  of  time  to  himself,  so  he  needs  a  certain  portion  of 
ground  to  himself,  and  must  not  be  stared  at  when  he  digs 
there  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  or  plays  at  leapfrog  with  his  boys 
from  school,  or  talks  over  old  times  with  his  wife,  walking  up 
and  down  in  the  evening  sunshine.  Besides,  the  brick  wall 
has  good  practical  service  in  it,  and  shelters  you  from  the 
east  wind,  and  ripens  your  peaches  and  nectarines,  and  glows 
in  autumn  like  a  sunny  bank.  And,  moreover,  your  brick  wall, 
if  you  build  it  properly,  so  that  it  shall  stand  long  enough,  is 
a  beautiful  thing  when  it  is  old,  and  has  assumed  its  grave 
purple  red,  touched  with  mossy  green. 

Next  to  your  lordly  wall,  in  dignity  of  enclosure,  comes 


116 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


your  close-set  wooden  paling,  which  is  more  objectionable,  be* 
cause  it  commonly  means  enclosure  on  a  larger  scale  than 
people  want.  Still  it  is  significative  of  pleasant  parks,  and 
well-kept  field  walks,  and  herds  of  deer,  and  other  such  aris- 
tocratic pastoralisms,  which  have  here  and  there  their  proper 
place  in  a  country,  and  may  be  passed  without  any  discredit 
Next  to  your  paling,  comes  your  low  stone  dyke,  your 
mountain  fence,  indicative  at  a  glance  either  of  w7ild  hill  coun- 
try, or  of  beds  of  stone  beneath  the  soil ;  the  hedge  of  the 
mountains — delightful  in  all  its  associations,  and  yet  more  in 
the  varied  and  craggy  forms  of  the  loose  stones  it  is  built  of  ; 
and  next  to  the  low  stone  wall,  your  lowland  hedge,  either  in 
trim  line  of  massive  green,  suggested  of  the  pleasances  of  old 
Elizabethan  houses,  and  smooth  alleys  for  aged  feet,  and 
quaint  labyrinths  for  young  ones,  or  else  in  fair  entanglement 
of  eglantine  and  virgin's  bower,  tossing  its  scented  luxuriance 
along  our  country  waysides  ; — how  many  such  you  have  here 
among  your  pretty  hills,  fruitful  with  black  clusters  of  the 
bramble  for  boys  in  autumn,  and  crimson  hawthorn  berries 
for  birds  in  winter.  And  then  last,  and  most  difficult  to  class 
among  fences,  comes  your  handrail,  expressive  of  all  sorts  of 
things  ;  sometimes  having  a  knowing  and  vicious  look,  which 
it  learns  at  race-courses  ;  sometimes  an  innocent  and  tender 
lock,  which  it  learns  at  rustic  bridges  over  cressy  brooks  ;  and 
sometimes  a  prudent  and  protective  look,  which  it  learns  on 
passes  of  the  Alps,  where  it  has  posts  of  granite  and  bars  of 
pine,  and  guards  the  brows  of  cliffs  and  the  banks  of  torrents. 
So  that  in  all  these  kinds  of  defence  there  is  some  good, 
pleasant,  or  noble  meaning.  But  wThat  meaning  has  the  iron 
railing  ?  Either,  observe,  that  you  are  living  in  the  midst  of 
such  bad  characters  that  you  must  keep  them  out  by  main 
force  of  bar,  or  that  you  are  yourself  of  a  character  requiring 
to  be  kept  inside  in  the  same  manner.  Your  iron  railing  al- 
ways means  thieves  outside,  or  Bedlam  inside  ;  it  can  mean 
nothing  else  than  that.  If  the  people  outside  were  good  for 
anything,  a  hint  in  the  way  of  fence  would  be  enough  for 
them  ;  but  because  they  are  violent  and  at  enmity  with  you, 
you  are  forced  to  put  the  close  bars  and  the  spikes  at  the  top* 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY, 


117 


Last  summer  I  was  lodging*  for  a  little  while  in  a  cottage  in 
the  country,  and  in  front  of  my  low  window  there  were,  first 
some  beds  of  daisies,  then  a  row  of  gooseberry  and  currant 
bushes,  and  then  a  low  wall  about  three  feet  above  the  ground, 
covered  with  stone-cress.  Outside,  a  corn-field,  with  its  green 
ears  glistening  in  the  sun,  and  a  field  path  through  it,  just 
past  the  garden  gate.  From  my  window  I  could  see  every 
peasant  of  the  village  who  passed  that  way,  with  basket  on  arm 
for  market,  or  spade  on  shoulder  for  field.  When  I  was  in- 
clined for  society,  I  could  lean  over  my  wall,  and  talk  to  any- 
body ;  when  I  was  inclined  for  science,  I  could  botanize  all 
along  the  top  of  my  wall — there  were  four  species  of  stone- 
cress  alone  growing  on  it ;  and  when  I  was  inclined  for  exer- 
cise, I  could  jump  over  my  wall,  backwards  and  forwards. 
That's  the  sort  of  fence  to  have  in  a  Christian  country  ;  not  a 
thing  which  you  can't  walk  inside  of  without  making  yourself 
look  like  a  wild  beast,  nor  look  at  out  of  your  window  in  the 
morning  without  expecting  to  see  somebody  impaled  upon  it 
in  the  ni^ht. 

And  yet  farther,  observe  that  the  iron  railing  is  a  useless 
fence — it  can  shelter  nothing,  and  support  nothing  ;  you  can't 
nail  your  peaches  to  it,  nor  protect  your  flowers  with  it,  nor 
make  anything  whatever  out  of  its  costly  tyranny  ;  and  be- 
sides being  useless,  it  is  an  insolent  fence  ; — it  says  plainly  to 
everybody  who  passes — "You  may  be  an  honest  person,— 
but,  also,  you  may  be  a  thief :  honest  or  not,  you  shall  not 
get  in  here,  for  I  am  a  respectable  person,  and  much  above 
you  ;  you  shall  only  see  what  a  grand  place  I  have  got  to  keep 
you  out  of — look  here,  and  depart  in  humiliation." 

This,  however,  being  in  the  present  state  of  civilization  a 
frequent  manner  of  discourse,  and  there  being  unfortunately 
many  districts  where  the  iron  railing  is  unavoidable,  it  yet  re- 
mains a  question  whether  you  need  absolutely  make  it  ugly, 
no  less  than  significative  of  evil.  You  must  have  railings 
round  your  squares  in  London,  and  at  the  sides  of  your  areas; 
but  need  you  therefore  have  railings  so  ugly  that  the  constant 
sight  of  them  is  enough  to  neutralise  the  effect  of  all  the 
schools  of  art  in  the  kingdom  ?    You  need  not.    Far  from 


118 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


such  necessity,  it  is  even  in  your  power  to  turn  all  your  police 
force  of  iron  bars  actually  into  drawing  masters,  and  natural 
historians.  Not,  of  course,  without  some  trouble  and  some 
expense  ;  you  can  do  nothing  much  worth  doing,  in  this 
world,  without  trouble,  you  can  get  nothing  much  worth  hav- 
ing without  expense.  The  main  question  is  only — what  is 
worth  doing  and  having  : — Consider,  therefore,  if  this  be  not. 
Here  is  your  iron  railing,  as  yet,  an  uneducated  monster ;  a 
sombre  seneschal,  incapable  of  any  words,  except  his  per- 
petual "Keep  out !  "  and  "  Away  with  you  !  "  Would  it  not 
be  worth  ,  some  trouble  and  cost  to  turn  this  ungainly  ruffian 
porter  into  a  well-educated  servant ;  who,  while  he  was  severe 
as  ever  in  forbidding  entrance  to  evilly- disposed  people,  should 
yet  have  a  kind  word  for  well-disposed  people,  and  a  pleasant 
look,  and  a  little  useful  information  at  his  command,  in  case 
he  should  be  asked  a  question  by  the  passers-by  ? 

"We  have  not  time  to-night  to  look  at  many  examples  of 
ironwork  ;  and  those  I  happen  to  have  by  me  are  not  the  best; 
ironwork  is  not  one  of  my  special  subjects  of  study  ;  so  that  I 
only  have  memoranda  of  bits  that  happened  to  come  into 
picturesque  subjects  which  I  was  drawing  for  other  reasons. 
Besides,  external  ironwork  is  more  difficult  to  find  good  than 
any  other  sort  of  ancient  art ;  for  when  it  gets  rusty  and 
broken,  people  are  sure,  if  they  can  afford  it,  to  send  it  to  the 
old  iron  shop,  and  get  a  fine  new  grating  instead  ;  and  in 
the  great  cities  of  Italy,  the  old  iron  is  thus  nearly  all  gone  : 
the  best  bits  I  remember  in  the  open  air  were  at  Brescia  ; — 
fantastic  sprays  of  laurel-like  foliage  rising  over  the  garden 
gates  ;  and  there  are  a  few  fine  fragments  at  Verona,  and  some 
good  trellis- work  enclosing  the  Scala  tombs  ;  but  on  the  wThole, 
the  most  interesting  pieces,  though  by  no  means  the  purest  in 
style,  are  to  be  found  in  out-of-the-way  provincial  towns, 
where  people  do  not  care,  or  are  unable,  to  make  polite  altera- 
tions. The  little  town  of  Bellinzona,  for  instance,  on  the  south 
of  the  Alps,  and  that  of  Sion  on  the  north,  have  both  of  them 
complete  schools  of  ironwork  in  their  balconies  and  vineyard 
gates.  That  of  Bellinzona  is  the  best,  though  not  very  old — I 
suppose  most  of  it  of  the  seventeenth  century  ;  still  it  is  very 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY, 


119 


quaint  and  beautiful.  Here,  for  example,  (see  frontispiece), 
are  two  balconies,  from  two  different  houses  ;  one  has  been  a 
cardinal's,  and  the  hat  is  the  principal  ornament  of  the  bal- 
cony ;  its  tassels  being  wrought  with  delightful  delicacy  and 
freedom  ;  and  catching  the  eye  clearly  even  among  the  mass 
of  rich  wreathed  leaves.  These  tassels  and  strings  are  pre- 
cisely the  kind  of  subject  fit  for  ironwork — noble  in  ironwork, 
they  would  have  been  entirely  ignoble  in  marble,  on  the 
grounds  above  stated.  The  real  plant  of  oleander  standing 
in  the  window  enriches  the  whole  group  of  lines  very 
happily. 

The  other  balcony,  from  a  very  ordinary-looking  house  in 
the  same  street,  is  much  more  interesting  in  its  details.  It  is 
shown  in  the  plate  as  it  appeared  last  summer,  with  convol- 
vulus twined  about  the  bars,  the  arrowT-shaped  living  leaves 
mingled  among  the  leaves  of  iron  ;  but  you  may  see  in  the 
centre  of  these  real  leaves  a  cluster  of  lighter  ones,  wmich  are 
those  of  the  ironwork  itself.  This  cluster  is  worth  giving  a  little 
larger  to  show  its  treatment.  Fig.  2  (in  Appendix  V.)  is  the 
front  view  of  it :  Fig.  4,  its  profile.  It  is  composed  of  a  large 
tulip  in  the  centre  ;  then  two  turkscap  lilies  ;  then  two  pinks, 
a  little  conventionalized  ;  then  two  narcissi ;  then  two  nonde- 
scripts, or,  at  least,  flowers  I  do  not  know  ;  and  then  two  dark 
buds,  and  a  few  leaves.  I  say,  dark  buds,  for  all  these  flowTers 
have  been  coloured  in  their  original  state.  The  plan  of  the 
group  is  exceedingly  simple  :  it  is  all  enclosed  in  a  pointed 
arch  (Fig.  3,  Appendix  V.) :  the  large  mass  of  the  tulip  form- 
ing the  apex ;  a  six-foiled  star  on  each  side ;  then  a  jagged 
star ;  then  a  five-foiled  star  ;  then  an  unjagged  star  or  rose  ; 
finally  a  small  bud,  so  as  to  establish  relation  and  cadence 
through  the  whole  group.  The  profile  is  very  free  and  fine, 
and  the  upper  bar  of  the  balcony  exceedingly  beautiful  in 
effect ; — none  the  less  so  on  account  of  the  marvellously  sim- 
ple means  employed.  A  thin  strip  of  iron  is  bent  over  a 
square  rod  ;  out  of  the  edge  of  this  strip  are  cut  a  series  of 
triangular  openings — widest  at  top,  leaving  projecting  teeth 
of  iron  (Appendix,  Fig.  5) ;  then  each  of  these  projecting 
pieces  gets  a  little  sharp  tap  with  the  hammer  in  front,  which 


120 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


beaks  its  edge  inwards,  tearing  it  a  little  open  at  the  same 
time,  and  the  thing  is  done. 

The  common  forms  of  Swiss  ironwork  are  less  naturalistic 
than  these  Italian  balconies,  depending  more  on  beautiful  ar- 
rangements of  various  curve  ;  nevertheless,  there  has  been  a 
rich  naturalist  school  at  Fribourg,  where  a  few  bell-handles 
are  still  left,  consisting  of  rods  branched  into  laurel  and 
other  leafage.  At  Geneva,  modern  improvements  have  left 
nothing  ;  but  at  Annecy,  a  little  good  work  remains  ;  the  bal- 
cony of  its  old  hotel  de  ville  especially,  with  a  trout  of  the 
lake— presumably  the  town  arms — forming  its  central  orna- 
ment. 

I  might  expatiate  all  night — if  you  would  sit  and  hear  me 
— on  the  treatment  of  such  required  subject,  or  introduction 
of  pleasant  caprice  by  the  old  workmen ;  but  we  have  no 
more  time  to  spare,  and  I  must  quit  this  part  of  our  subject — ■ 
the  rather  as  I  could  not  explain  to  you  the  intrinsic  merit  of 
such  ironwork  without  going  fully  into  the  theory  of  curvi- 
linear design  ;  only  let  me  leave  with  you  this  one  distinct  as- 
sertion—that the  quaint  beauty  and  character  of  many  natural 
objects,  such  as  intricate  branches,  grass,  foliage  (especially 
thorny  branches  and  prickly  foliage),  as  well  as  that  of  many 
animals,  plumed,  spined,  or  bristled,  is  sculpturally  expressible 
in  iron  only,  and  in  iron  would  be  majestic  and  impressive  in 
the  highest  degree  ;  and  that  every  piece  of  metal  work  you 
use  might  be,  rightly  treated,  not  only  a  superb  decoration, 
but  a  most  valuable  abstract  of  portions  of  natural  forms, 
holding  in  dignity  precisely  the  same  relation  to  the  painted 
representation  of  plants,  that  a  statue  does  to  the  painted 
form  of  man.  It  is  difficult  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the  grace 
and  interest  which  the  simplest  objects  possess  when  their 
forms  are  thus  abstracted  from  among  the  surrounding  of  rich 
circumstance  which  in  nature  disturbs  the  feebleness  of  our 
attention.  In  Plate  2,  a  few  blades  of  common  green  grass, 
and  a  wild  leaf  or  two — just  as  they  were  thrown  by  nature, 
—  are  thus  abstracted  from  the  associated  redundance  of  the 
forms  about  them,  and  shown  on  a  dark  ground  :  every  cluster 
of  herbage  would  furnish  fifty  such  groups,  and  every  such 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


121 


group  would  work  into  iron  (fitting  it,  of  course,  rightly  to  its 
service)  with  perfect  ease,  and  endless  grandeur  of  result. 

III.  Iron  in  Policy. — Having  thus  obtained  some  idea  of 
the  use  of  iron  in  art,  as  dependent  on  its  ductility,  I  need 
not,  certainly,  say  anything  of  its  uses  in  manufacture  and 
commerce  ;  wTe  all  of  us  know  enough, — perhaps  a  little  too 
much — about  them.  So  I  pass  lastly  to  consider  its  uses  in 
policy  ;  dependent  chiefly  upon  its  tenacity — that  is  to  say, 
on  its  power  of  bearing  a  pull,  and  receiving  an  edge.  These 
powers,  which  enable  it  to  pierce,  to  bind,  and  to  smite,  ren- 
der it  fit  for  the  three  great  instruments,  by  which  its  politi- 
cal action  may  be  simply  typified  ;  namely,  the  Plough,  the 
Fetter,  and  the  Sword. 

On  our  understanding  the  right  use  of  these  three  instru- 
ments, depend,  of  course,  all  our  power  as  a  nation,  and  all 
our  happiness  as  individuals. 

I.  The  Plough. — I  say,  first,  on  our  understanding  the 
right  use  of  the  plough,  with  which,  in  justice  to  the  fairest 
of  our  labourers,  we  must  always  associate  that  feminine 
plough — the  needle.  The  first  requirement  for  the  happi- 
ness of  a  nation  is  that  it  should  understand  the  function  in 
this  world  of  these  two  great  instruments  :  a  happy  nation 
may  be  defined  as  one  in  which  the  husband's  hand  is  on  the 
plough,  and  the  housewife's  on  the  needle  ;  so  in  due  time 
reaping  its  golden  harvest,  and  shining  in  golden  vesture  : 
and  an  unhappy  nation  is  one  which,  acknowledging  no  use 
of  plough  nor  needle,  will  assuredly  at  last  find  its  storehouse 
empty  in  the  famine,  and  its  breast  naked  to  the  cold. 

Perhaps  you  think  this  is  a  mere  truism,  which  I  am  wast- 
ing your  time  in  repeating.    I  wish  it  were. 

By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  suffering  and  crime  which 
exist  at  this  moment  in  civilized  Europe,  arises  simply  from 
people  not  understanding  this  truism — not  knowing  that  prod- 
uce or  wealth  is  eternally  connected  by  the  laws  of  heaven 
and  earth  with  resolute  labour  ;  but  hoping  in  some  way  to 
cheat  or  abrogate  this  everlasting  law  of  life,  and  to  feed 
where  they  have  not  furrowed,  and  be  warm  where  they  have 
not  woven. 


122 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


I  repeat,  nearly  all  our  misery  and  crime  result  from  this 
one  misapprehension.  The  law  of  nature  is,  that  a  certain 
quantity  of  work  is  necessary  to  produce  a  certain  quantity  of 
good,  of  any  kind  whatever.  If  you  want  knowledge,  you 
must  toil  for  it :  if  food,  you  must  toil  for  it ;  and  if  pleasure, 
you  must  toil  for  it.  But  men  do  not  acknowledge  this  law, 
or  strive  to  evade  it,  hoping  to  get  their  knowiedge,  and 
food,  and  pleasure  for  nothing  ;  and  in  this  effort  they  either 
fail  of  getting  them,  and  remain  ignorant  and  miserable,  or 
they  obtain  them  by  making  other  men  work  for  their  bene- 
fit ;  and  then  they  are  tyrants  and  robbers.  Yes,  and  worse 
than  robbers.  I  am  not  one  who  in  the  least  doubts  or  dis- 
putes the  progress  of  this  century  in  many  things  useful  to 
mankind  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  a  very  dark  sign  respecting  U3 
that  we  look  with  so  much  indifference  upon  dishonesty  and 
cruelty  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth.  In  the  dream  of  Nebuchad- 
nezzar it  was  only  the  feet  that  were  part  of  iron  and  part  of 
clay  ;  but  many  of  us  are  now  getting  so  cruel  in  our  avarice, 
that  it  seems  as  if,  in  us,  the  heart  were  part  of  iron,  and  part 
of  clay. 

From  what  I  have  heard  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  town,  I 
do  not  doubt  but  that  I  may  be  permitted  to  do  here  what  I 
have  found  it  usually  thought  elsewhere  highly  improper  and 
absurd  to  do,  namely,  trace  a  few  Bible  sentences  to  their 
practical  result. 

You  cannot  but  have  noticed  how  often  in  those  parts  of 
the  Bible  which  are  likely  to  be  oftenest  opened  when  people 
look  for  guidance,  comfort,  or  help  in  the  affairs  of  daily  life, 
namely,  the  Psalms  and  Proverbs,  mention  is  made  of  the 
guilt  attaching  to  the  Oppression  of  the  poor.  Observe  :  not 
the  neglect  of  them,  but  the  Oppression  of  them  :  the  word  is 
as  frequent  as  it  is  strange.  You  can  hardly  open  either  of 
those  books,  but  somewhere  in  their  pages  you  will  find  a  de- 
scription of  the  wicked  man's  attempts  against  the  poor  :  such 
as — "  He  doth  ravish  the  poor  when  he  getteth  him  into  his 
net" 

'?  He  sitteth  in  the  lurking  places  of  the  villages  ;  his  eyes 
are  privily  set  against  the  poor." 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


123 


"In  his  pride  he  doth  persecute  the  poor,  and  blesseth  the 
covetous,  whom  God  abhorreth." 

"  His  mouth  is  full  of  deceit  and  fraud  ;  in  the  secret  places 
doth  he  murder  the  innocent.  Have  the  workers  of  iniquity 
no  knowledge,  who  eat  up  my  people  as  they  eat  bread  ?  They 
have  drawn  out  the  sword,  and  bent  the  bow,  to  cast  down  the 
poor  and  needy." 

"They  are  corrupt,  and  speak  wickedly  concerning  oppres- 
sion." 

"  Pride  compasseth  them  about  as  a  chain,  and  violence  as 
a  garment." 

"  Their  poison  is  like  the  poison  of  a  serpent.  Ye  weigh 
the  violence  of  your  hands  in  the  earth." 

Yes  :  c:  Ye  weigh  the  violence  of  your  hands  :  " — weigh 
these  words  as  well,  The  last  things  we  ever  usually  think  of 
weighing  are  Bible  words.  We  like  to  dream  and  dispute 
over  them  ;  but  to  weigh  them,  and  see  what  their  true  con- 
tents are — anything  but  that.  Yet,  weigh  these  ;  for  I  have 
purposely  taken  all  these  verses,  perhaps  more  striking  to  you 
read  in  this  connection,  than  separately  in  their  places,  out  of 
the  Psalms,  because,  for  all  people  belonging  to  the  Estab- 
lished Church  of  this  country  these  Psalms  are  appointed  les- 
sons, portioned  out  to  them  by  their  clergy  to  be  read  once 
through  every  month.  Presumably,  therefore,  whatever  por- 
tions of  Scripture  we  may  pass  by  or  forget,  these  at  all  events, 
must  be  brought  continually  to  our  observance  as  useful  for 
direction  of  daily  life.  Now,  do  we  ever  ask  ourselves  what 
the  real  meaning  of  these  passages  may  be,  and  who  these 
wicked  people  are,  who  are  "  murdering  the  innocent?  "  You 
know  it  is  rather  singular  language  this  ! — rather  strong  lan- 
guage, we  might,  perhaps,  call  it — hearing  it  for  the  first  time. 
Murder !  and  murder  of  innocent  people  ! — nay,  even  a  sort  of 
cannibalism.  Eating  people, — yes,  and  God's  people,  too- — 
eating  My  people  as  if  they  were  bread  !  swords  drawn,  bows 
bent,  poison  of  serpents  mixed  !  violence  of  hands  weighed, 
measured,  and  trafficked  with  as  so  much  coin  !  where  is  all 
this  going  on  ?  Do  you  suppose  it  was  only  going  on  in  the 
time  of  David,  and  that  nobody  but  Jews  ever  murder  the 


124 


TEE  TWO  PATHS. 


poor?  If  so,  it  would  surely  be  wiser  not  to  mutter  and 
mumble  for  our  daily  lessons  what  does  not  concern  us  ;  but 
if  there  be  any  chance  that  it  may  concern  us,  and  if  this  de- 
scription, in  the  Psalms,  of  human  guilt  is  at  all  generally  ap- 
plicable, as  the  descriptions  in  the  Psalms  of  human  sorrow 
are,  may  it  not  be  advisable  to  know  wherein  this  guilt  is 
being  committed  round  about  us,  or  by  ourselves  ?  and  when 
we  take  the  words  of  the  Bible  into  our  mouths  in  a  congrega- 
tional way,  to  be  sure  whether  we  mean  merely  to  chant  a 
piece  of  melodious  poetry  relating  to  other  people— (we  know 
not  exactly  to  whom) — or  to  assert  our  belief  in  facts  bearing 
somewhat  stringently  on  ourselves  and  our  daily  business. 
And  if  you  make  up  your  minds  to  do  this  no  longer,  and 
take  pains  to  examine  into  the  matter,  you  will  find  that  these 
strange  words,  occurring  as  they  do,  not  in  a  few  places  only, 
but  almost  in  every  alternate  psalm  and  every  alternate  chap- 
ter of  proverb,  or  prophecy,  with  tremendous  reiteration,  were 
not  written  for  one  nation  or  one  time  only  ;  but  for  all  nations 
and  languages,  for  all  places  and  all  centuries  ;  and  it  is  as 
true  of  the  wicked  man  now  as  ever  it  was  of  Nabal  or  Dives, 
that  "his  eyes  are  set  against  the  poor." 

Set  against  the  poor,  mind  you.  Not  merely  set  away  from 
the  poor,  so  as  to  neglect  or  lose  sight  of  them,  but  set  against, 
so  as  to  afflict  and  destroy  them.  This  is  the  main  point  I 
want  to  fix  your  attention  upon.  You  will  often  hear  sermons 
about  neglect  or  carelessness  of  the  poor.  But  neglect  and 
carelessness  are  not  at  all  the  points.  The  Bible  hardly  ever 
talks  about  neglect  of  the  poor.  It  always  talks  of  oppression 
of  the  poor — a  very  different  matter.  It  does  not  merely 
speak  of  passing  by  on  the  other  side,  and  binding  up  no 
wounds,  but  of  drawing  the  sword  and  ourselves  smiting  the 
men  down.  It  does  not  charge  us  with  being  idle  in  the  pest- 
house,  and  giving  no  medicine,  but  with  being  busy  in  the 
pesfc-house,  and  giving  much  poison. 

May  we  not  advisedly  look  into  this  matter  a  little,  even  to- 
night, and  ask  first,  Who  are  these  poor  ? 

No  country  is,  or  ever  will  be,  without  them  :  that  is  to 
bay,  without  the  class  which  cannot,  on  the  average,  do  more 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY.  125 


by  its  labour  than  provide  for  its  subsistence,  and  which  hag 
no  accumulations  of  propert}'  laid  by  on  any  considerable 
scale.  Now  there  are  a  certain  number  of  this  class  whom  we 
cannot  oppress  with  much  severity.  An  able-bodied  and  in- 
telligent workman — sober,  honest,  and  industrious,  will  almost 
always  command  a  fair  price  for  his  work,  and  lay  by  enough 
in  a  few  years  to  enable  him  to  hold  his  own  in  the  labour 
market.  But  all  men  are  not  able-bodied,  nor  intelligent,  nor 
industrious  ;  and  you  cannot  expect  them  to  be.  Nothing 
appears  to  me  at  once  more  ludicrous  and  more  melancholy 
than  the  way  the  people  of  the  present  age  usually  talk  about 
the  morals  of  labourers.  You  hardly  ever  address  a  labour- 
ing man  upon  his  prospects  in  life,  without  quietly  assuming 
that  he  is  to  possess,  at  starting,  as  a  small  moral  capital  to 
begin  with,  the  virtue  of  Socrates,  the  philosophy  of  Plato, 
and  the  heroism  of  Epaminondas.  "Be  assured,  my  good 
man, " — you  say  to  him, — "  that  if  you  work  steadily  for  ten 
hours  a  day  all  your  life  long,  and  if  you  drink  nothing  but 
water,  or  the  very  mildest  beer,  and  live  on  very  plain  food, 
and  never  lose  your  temper,  and  go  to  church  every  Sunday, 
and  always  remain  content  in  the  position  in  which  Provi- 
dence has  placed  you,  and  never  grumble  nor  swear ;  and  al- 
ways keep  your  clothes  decent,  and  rise  early,  and  use  every 
opportunity  of  improving  yourself,  you  will  get  on  very  well; 
and  never  come  to  the  parish. " 

All  this  is  exceedingly  true  ;  but  before  giving  the  advice 
so  confidently,  it  would  be  well  if  we  sometimes  tried  it  prac- 
tically ourselves,  and  spent  a  year  or  so  at  some  hard  manual 
labour,  not  of  an  entertaining  kind — ploughing  or  digging, 
for  instance,  with  a  very  moderate  allowance  of  beer  ;  nothing 
but  bread  and  cheese  for  dinner  ;  no  papers  nor  muffins  in 
the  morning ;  no  sofas  nor  magazines  at  night ;  one  small 
room  for  parlour  and  kitchen  ;  and  a  large  family  of  children 
always  in  the  middle  of  the  floor=  If  we  think  we  could,  un- 
der these  circumstances,  enact  Socrates  or  Epaminondas  en- 
tirely to  our  own  satisfaction,  we  shall  be  somewhat  justified 
in  requiring  the  same  behaviour  from  our  poorer  neighbours ; 
but  if  not,  we  should  surely  consider  a  little  whether  among 


126 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


the  various  forms  of  the  oppression  of  the  poor,  we  may  noi 
rank  as  one  of  the  first  and  likeliest — the  oppression  of  ex~ 
pectin  g  too  much  from  them. 

But  let  this  pass  ;  and  let  it  be  admitted  that  we  can  neve* 
be  guilty  of  oppression  towards  the  sober,  industrious,  intelli- 
gent, exemplary  labourer.  There  will  always  be  in  the  work] 
some  who  are  not  altogether  intelligent  and  exemplary  ;  we 
shall,  I  believe,  to  the  end  of  time  find  the  majority  somewhat 
unintelligent,  a  little  inclined  to  be  idle,  and  occasionally,  on 
Saturday  night,  drunk  ;  we  must  even  be  prepared  to  hear  of 
reprobates  who  like  skittles  on  Sunday  morning  better  than 
prayers  ;  and  of  unnatural  parents  who  send  their  children 
out  to  beg  instead  of  to  go  to  school. 

Now  these  are  the  kind  of  people  whom  you  can  oppress, 
and  whom  you  do  oppress,  and  that  to  purpose, — and  with 
all  the  more  cruelty  and  the  greater  sting,  because  it  is  just 
their  own  fault  that  puts  them  into  your  power.  You  know 
the  words  about  wicked  people  are,  "  He  doth  ravish  the  poor 
when  he  getteth  him  into  his  net."  This  getting  into  the  net 
is  constantly  the  fault  or  folly  of  the  sufferer — his  own  heed- 
lessness or  his  own  indolence  ;  but  after  he  is  once  in  the  net, 
the  oppression  of  him,  ^nd  making  the  most  of  his  distress, 
are  ours.  The  nets  which  we  use  against  the  poor  are  just 
those  worldly  embarrassments  which  either  their  ignorance 
or  their  improvidence  are  almost  certain  at  some  time  or 
other  to  bring  them  into  :  then,  just  at  the  time  when  we 
ought  to  hasten  to  help  them,  and  disentangle  them,  and 
teach  them  how  to  manage  better  in  future,  we  rush  forward 
to  pillage  them,  and  force  all  we  can  out  of  them  in  their  ad- 
versity. For,  to  take  one  instance  only,  remember  this  is  liter- 
ally  and  simply  what  we  do,  whenever  we  buy,  or  try  to  buy, 
cheap  goods — goods  offered  at  a  price  which  we  know  cannot 
be  remunerative  for  the  labour  involved  in  them.  Whenever 
we  buy  such  goods,  remember  we  are  stealing  somebody's 
labour.  Don't  let  us  mince  the  matter.  I  say,  in  plain  Saxon, 
stealing — taking  from  him  the  proper  reward  of  his  work,  and 
putting  it  into  our  own  pocket.  You  know  well  enough  that 
the  thing  could  not  have  been  offered  you  at  that  price,  un- 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY.  127 


less  distress  of  some  kind  had  forced  the  producer  to  part 
with  it.  You  take  advantage  of  this  distress,  and  you  force 
as  much  out  of  him  as  you  can  under  the  circumstances.  The 
old  barons  of  the  middle  ages  used,  in  general,  the  thumb- 
screw to  extort  property  ;  we  moderns  use,  in  preference,  hun- 
ger or  domestic  affliction  :  but  the  fact  of  extortion  remains 
precisely  the  same.  Whether  we  force  the  man's  property 
from  him  by  pinching  his  stomach,  or  pinching  his  fingers, 
makes  some  difference  anatomically  ; — morally,  none  whatso- 
ever :  we  use  a  form  of  torture  of  some  sort  in  order  to  make 
him  give  up  his  property  ;  we  use,  indeed,  the  man's  own 
anxieties,  instead  of  the  rack  ;  and  his  immediate  peril  of 
starvation,  instead  of  the  pistol  at  the  head  ;  but  otherwise 
we  differ  from  Front  de  Boeuf,  or  Dick  Turpin,  merely  in  be- 
ing less  dexterous,  more  cowardly,  and  more  cruel.  More 
cruel,  I  say,  because  the  fierce  baron  and  the  redoubted  high- 
wayman are  reported  to  have  robbed,  at  least  by  preference, 
only  the  rich  ;  we  steal  habitually  from  the  poor.  W e  buy 
our  liveries,  and  gild  our  prayer-books,  with  pilfered  pence 
out  of  children's  and  sick  men's  wages,  and  thus  ingeniously 
dispose  a  given  quantity  of  Theft,  so  that  it  may;  produce  the 
largest  possible  measure  of  delicately  distributed  suffering. 

But  this  is  only  one  form  of  common  oppression  of  the  poor 
■ — only  one  way  of  taking  our  hands  off  the  plough  handle, 
and  binding  another's  upon  it.  This  first  way  of  doing 
it  is  the  economical  way — the  way  preferred  by  prudent  and 
virtuous  people.  The  bolder  way  is  the  acquisitive  way  : — the 
way  of  speculation.  You  know  we  are  considering  at  present 
the  various  modes  in  which  a  nation  corrupts  itself,  by  not 
acknowledging  the  eternal  connection  between  its  plough  and 
its  pleasure  ; — by  striving  to  get  pleasure,  without  working 
for  it.  Well,  I  say  the  first  and  commonest  way  of  doing  so 
is  to  try  to  get  the  product  of  other  people's  work,  and  enjoy 
it  ourselves,  by  cheapening  their  labour  in  times  of  distress  : 
then  the  second  way  is  that  grand  one  of  watching  the  chances 
of  the  market  ; — the  way  of  speculation.  Of  course  there  are 
some  speculations  that  are  fair  and  honest — speculations  made 
with  our  own  money,  and  which  do  not  involve  in  their  sue- 


123 


TnE  two  paths. 


cess  the  loss,  by  others,  of  what  we  gain.  But  generally  mod- 
ern speculation  involves  much  risk  to  others,  with  chance  of 
profit  only  to  ourselves  :  even  in  its  best  conditions  it  is  merely 
one  of  the  forms  of  gambling  or  treasure  hunting  ;  it  is  either 
leaving  the  steady  plough  and  the  steady  pilgrimage  of  life,  to 
look  for  silver  mines  beside  the  way ;  or  else  it  is  the  full  stop 
beside  the  dice-tables  in  Vanity  Fair — investing  all  the  thoughts 
and  passions  of  the  soul  in  the  fall  of  the  cards,  and  choosing 
rather  the  wild  accidents  of  idle  fortune  than  the  calm  and 
accumulative  rewards  of  toil.  And  this  is  destructive  enough, 
at  least  to  our  peace  and  virtue.  But  is  usually  destructive 
of  far  more  than  our  peace,  or  our  virtue.  Have  you  ever  de- 
liberately set  yourselves  to  imagine  and  measure  the  suffering, 
the  guilt,  and  the  mortality  caused  necessarily  by  the  failure 
of  any  large-dealing  merchant,  or  largely-branched  bank  ? 
Take  it  at  the  lowest  possible  supposition — count,  at  the  few- 
est you  choose,  the  families  whose  means  of  support  have 
been  involved  in  the  catastrophe.  Then,  on  the  morning- 
after  the  intelligence  of  ruin,  let  us  go  forth  amongst  them  in 
earnest  thought ;  let  us  use  that  imagination  which  we  waste 
so  often  on  fictitious  sorrow,  to  measure  the  stern  facts  of  that 
multitudinous  distress  ;  strike  open  the  private  doors  of  their 
chambers,  and  enter  silently  into  the  midst  of  ttoe  domestic 
misery  ;  look  upon  the  old  men,  who  had  reserved  for  their 
failing  strength  some  remainder  of  rest  in  the  evening-tide  of 
life,  cast  helplessly  back  into  its  trouble  and  tumult ;  look 
upon  the  active  strength  of  middle  age  suddenly  blasted  into 
incapacity — its  hopes  crushed,  and  its  hardly  earned  rewards 
snatched  away  in  the  same  instant — at  once  the  heart  with- 
ered, and  the  right  arm  snapped  ;  look  upon  the  piteous  chil- 
dren, delicately  nurtured,  whose  soft  eyes,  now  large  with 
wonder  at  their  parents'  grief,  must  soon  be  set  in  the  dimness 
of  famine  ;  and,  far  more  than  all  this,  look  forward  to  the 
length  of  sorrow  beyond — to  the  hardest  labour  of  life,  now 
to  be  undergone  either  in  all  the  severity  of  unexpected  and 
inexperienced  trial,  or  else,  more  bitter  still,  to  be  begun 
again,  and  endured  for  the  second  time,  amidst  the  ruins  of 
cherished  hopes  and  the  feebleness  of  advancing  years,  em- 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


129 


bittered  by  the  continual  sting  and  taunt  of  the  inner  feeling 
that  it  has  all  been  brought  about,  not  by  the  fair  course  of 
appointed  circumstance,  but  by  miserable  chance  and  wanton 
treachery  ;  and,  last  of  ail,  look  beyond  this — to  the  shattered 
destinies  of  those  who  have  faltered  under  the  trial,  and  sunk 
past  recovery  to  despair.  And  then  consider  whether  the 
hand  which  has  poured  this  poison  into  all  the  springs  of  life 
be  one  whit  less  guiltily  red  with  human  blood  than  that 
which  literally  pours  the  hemlock  into  the  cup,  or  guides  the 
dagger  to  the  heart  ?  We  read  with  horror  of  the  crimes  of  a 
Borgia  or  a  Tophana  ;  but  there  never  lived  Borgias  such  as 
live  now  in  the  midst  of  us.  The  cruel  lady  of  Ferrara  slew 
only  in  the  strength  of  passion — she  slew  only  a  few,  those 
who  thwarted*  her  purposes  or  who  vexed  her  soul ;  she  slew 
sharply  and  suddenly,  embittering  the  fate  of  her  victims  with 
no  foretastes  of  destruction,  no  prolongations  of  pain  ;  and, 
finally  and  chiefly,  she  slew,  not  without  remorse,  nor  without 
pit}7.  But  we,  in  no  storm  of  passion — in  no  blindness  of 
wrath, — we,  in  calm  and  clear  and  untempted  selfishness,  pour 
our  poison — not  for  a  few  only,  but  for  multitudes  ; — not  for 
those  who  have  wronged  us,  or  resisted, — but  for  those  who 
have  trusted  us  and  aided  : — we,  not  with  sudden  gift  of  mer- 
ciful and  unconscious  death,  but  with  slow  waste  of  hunger 
and  weary  rack  of  disappointment  and  despair  ; — we,  last  and 
chiefly,  do  our  murdering,  not  with  any  pauses  of  pity  or 
scorching  of  conscience,  but  in  facile  and  forgetful  calm  of 
mind — and  so,  forsooth,  read  day  by  day,  complacently,  as  if 
they  meant  any  one  else  than  ourselves,  the  words  that  for- 
ever describe  the  wicked  :  "  The  poison  of  asps  is  under  their 
lips,  and  their  feet  are  swift  to  shed  blood" 

You  may  indeed,  perhaps,  think  there  is  some  excuse  for 
many  in  this  matter,  just  because  the  sin  is  so  unconscious  ; 
that  the  guilt  is  not  so  great  when  it  is  unapprehended,  and 
that  it  is  much  more  pardonable  to  slay  heedlessly  than  pur- 
posefully. I  believe  no  feeling  can  be  more  mistaken,  and 
that  in  reality,  and  in  the  sight  of  heaven ',  the  callous  indiffer- 
ence which  pursues  its  own  interests  at  any  cost  of  life, 
though  it  does  not  definitely  adopt  the  purpose  of  sin,  is  a 


130 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


state  of  mind  at  once  more  heinous  and  more  hopeless  than 
the  wildest  aberrations  of  ungoverned  passion.  There  may 
be,  in  the  last  case,  some  elements  of  good  and  of  redemption 
still  mingled  in  the  character  ;  but,  in  the  other,  few  or  none. 
There  may  be  hope  for  the  man  who  has  slain  his  enemy  in 
anger  ;  hope  even  for  the  man  who  has  betrayed  his  friend  in 
fear  ;  but  what  hope  for  him  who  trades  in  unregarded  blood, 
and  builds  his  fortune  on  unrepented  treason  ? 

But,  however  this  may  be,  and  wherever  you  may  think 
yourselves  bound  in  justice  to  impute  the  greater  sin,  be  as- 
sured that  the  question  is  one  of  responsibilities  only,  not  of 
facts.  The  definite  result  of  all  our  modern  haste  to  be  rich 
is  assuredly,  and  constantly,  the  murder  of  a  certain  number 
of  persons  by  our  hands  every  year.  I  have  hot  time  to  go 
into  the  details  of  another — on  the  whole,  the  broadest  and 
terriblest  way  in  which  we  cause  the  destruction  of  the  poor — i 
namely,  the  way  of  luxury  and  waste,  destroying,  in  improvi- 
dence, what  might  have  been  the  support  of  thousands ;  *  but 
if  you  follow  out  the  subject  for  yourselves  at  home — and 
what  I  have  endeavoured  to  lay  before  you  to-night  will  only 
be  useful  to  you  if  you  do — you  will  find  that  wherever  and 
whenever  men  are  endeavouring  to  make  money  hastily,  and  to 
avoid  the  labour  which  Providence  has  appointed  to  be  the 
only  source  of  honourable  profit ; — and  also  wherever  and 
whenever  they  permit  themselves  to  spend  it  luxuriously, 
without  reflecting  how  far  they  are  misguiding  the  labour  of 
others  ; — there  and  then,  in  either  case,  they  are  literally  and 
infallibly  causing,  for  their  own  benefit  or  their  own  pleasure, 
a  certain  annual  number  of  human  deaths ;  that,  therefore, 

f  The  analysis  of  this  error  will  "be  found  completely  carried  out  in 
my  lectures  on  the  political  economy  of  art.  And  it  is  an  error  worth 
analyzing  ;  for  until  it  is  finally  trodden  under  foot,  no  healthy  political, 
economical,  or  moral  action  is  possible  in  any  state.  I  do  not  say  this 
impetuously  or  suddenly,  for  I  have  investigated  this  subject  as  deeply, 
and  as  long,  as  my  own  special  subject  of  art ;  and  the  principles  of 
political  economy  which  I  have  stated  in  those  lectures  are  as  sure  as 
the  principles  of  Euclid.  Foolish  readers  doubted  their  certainty,  be- 
cause I  told  them  I  had  "  never  read  any  books  on  Political  Economy.'1 
Did  they  suppose  I  had  got  my  knowledge  of  art  by  reading  books  ? 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


131 


the  choice  given  to  every  man  born  into  this  world  is,  simply, 
whether  he  will  be  a  labourer,  or  an  assassin  ;  and  that  who- 
soever has  not  his  hand  on  the  Stilt  of  the  plough,  has  it  on 
the  Hilt  of  the  dagger. 

It  would  also  be  quite  vain  for  me  to  endeavour  to  follow 
out  this  evening  the  lines  of  thought  which  would  be  sug- 
gested by  the  other  two  great  political  uses  of  iron  in  the 
Fetter  and  the  Sword  :  a  few  words  only  I  must  permit  my- 
self respecting  both. 

2.  The  Fetter. — As  the  plough  is  the  typical  instrument  of 
industry,  so  the  fetter  is  the  typical  instrument  of  the  restraint 
or  subjection  necessary  in  a  nation — either  literally,  for  its 
evil-doers,  or  figuratively,  in  accepted  laws,  for  its  wise  and 
good  men.  You  have  to  choose  between  this  figurative  and 
literal  use  ;  for  depend  upon  it,  the  more  laws  you  accept,  the 
fewer  penalties  you  will  have  to  endure,  and  the  fewer  punish- 
ments to  enforce.  For  wise  laws  and  just  restraints  are  to  a 
noble  nation  not  chains,  but  chain  mail — strength  and  defence, 
though  something  also  of  an  incumbrance.  And  this  neces- 
sity of  restraint,  remember,  is  just  as  honourable  to  man  as 
the  necessity  of  labour.  You  hear  every  day  greater  numbers 
of  foolish  people  speaking  about  liberty,  as  if  it*were  such  an 
honourable  thing  :  so  far  from  being  that,  it  is,  on  the  whole, 
and  in  the  broadest  sense,  dishonourable,  and  an  attribute  of 
the  lower  creatures.  No  human  being,  however  great  or 
powerful,  was  ever  so  free  as  a  fish.  There  is  always  some- 
thing that  he  must,  or  must  not  do  ;  while  the  fish  may  do 
whatever  he  likes.  All  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  put  to- 
gether are  not  half  so  large  as  the  sea,  and  all  the  railroads 
and  wheels  that  ever  were,  or  will  be,  invented  are  not  so 
easy  as  fins.  You  will  find,  on  fairly  thinking  of  it,  that  it  is 
his  Kestraint  which  is  honourable  to  man,  not  his  Liberty  ; 
and,  what  is  more,  it  is  restraint  which  is  honourable  even  in 
the  lower  animals.  A  butterfly  is  much  more  free  than  a 
bee  ;  but  you  honour  the  bee  more,  just  because  it  is  subject 
to  certain  laws  which  fit  it  for  orderly  function  in  bee  society. 
And  throughout  the  world,  of  the  two  abstract  things,  liberty 
and  restraint,  restraint  is  always  the  more  honourable.    It  is 


132 


TEE  TWO  PATHS. 


true,  indeed,  that  in  these  and  all  other  matters  you  nevel 
can  reason  finally  from  the  abstraction,  for  both  liberty  and 
restraint  are  good  when  they  are  nobly  chosen,  and  both  are 
bad  when  they  are  basely  chosen  ;  but  of  the  two,  I  repeat,  it 
is  restraint  which  characterizes  the  higher  creature,  and  betters 
the  lower  creature  :  and,  from  the  ministering  of  the  arch- 
angel to  the  labour  of  the  insect, — from  the  poising  of  the 
planets  to  the  gravitation  of  a  grain  of  dust, — the  power  and 
glory  of  all  creatures,  and  all  matter,  consist  in  their  obedience, 
not  in  their  freedom.  The  Sun  has  no  liberty — a  dead  leaf 
has  much.  The  dust  of  which  you  are  formed  has  no  liberty. 
Its  liberty  will  come — with  its  corruption. 

And,  therefore,  I  say  boldly,  though  it  seems  a  strange 
thing  to  say  in  England,  that  as  the  first  power  of  a  nation 
consists  in  knowing  how  to  guide  the  Plough,  its  second  pow- 
er consists  in  knowing  how  to  wear  the  Fetter  : — 

3.  The  Sword. — And  its  third  power,  which  perfects  it  as  a 
nation,  consist  in  knowing  how  to  wield  the  sword,  so  that 
the  three  talismans  of  national  existence  are  expressed  in  these 
three  short  words — Labour,  Law,  and  Courage. 

This  last  virtue  w7e  at  least  possess ;  and  all  that  is  to  be 
alleged  against  us  is  that  we  do  not  honour  it  enough.  I  do 
not  mean  honour  by  acknowledgment  of  service,  though  some- 
times we  are  slow  in  doing  even  that.  But  we  do  not  honour 
it  enough  in  consistent  regard  to  the  lives  and  souls  of  our 
soldiers.  How  wantonly  we  have  wasted  their  lives  you  have 
seen  lately  in  the  reports  of  their  mortality  by  disease,  which 
a  little  care  and  science  might  have  prevented  ;  but  we  regard 
their  souls  less  than  their  lives,  by  keeping  them  in  ignorance 
and  idleness,  and  regarding  them  merely  as  instruments  of 
battle.  The  argument  brought  forward  for  the  maintenance 
of  a  standing  army  usually  refers  only  to  expediency  in  the 
case  of  unexpected  war,  whereas,  one  of  the  chief  reasons  for 
the  maintenance  of  an  army  is  the  advantage  of  the  military 
system  as  a  method  of  education.  The  most  fiery  and  head- 
strong, who  are  often  also  the  most  gifted  and  generous  of 
your  youths,  have  always  a  tendency  both  in  the  lower  and 
upper  classes  to  offer  themselves  for  your  soldiers  :  others, 


IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY,  133 


weak  and  unserviceable  in  a  civil  capacity,  are  tempted  or  en- 
trapped into  the  army  in  a  fortunate  hour  for  them  :  out  of 
this  fiery  or  uncouth  material,  it  is  only  a  soldier's  discipline 
which  can  bring  the  full  value  and  power.  Even  at  present, 
by  mere  force  of  order  and  authority,  the  army  is  the  salva- 
tion  of  myriads  ;  and  men  who,  under  other  circumstances, 
would  have  sunk  into  lethargy  or  dissipation,  are  redeemed 
into  noble  life  by  a  service  which  at  once  summons  and  directs 
their  energies.  How  much  more  than  this  military  education 
is  capable  of  doing,  you  will  find  only  when  you  make  it  edu- 
cation indeed.  We  have  no  excuse  for  leaving  our  private 
soldiers  at  their  present  level  of  ignorance  and  want  of  refine- 
ment, for  we  shall  invariably  find  that,  both  among  officers 
and  men,  the  gentlest  and  best  informed  are  the  bravest  ;  still 
less  have  we  excuse  for  diminishing  our  army,  either  in  the 
present  state  of  political  events,  or,  as  I  believe,  in  any  other 
conjunction  of  them  that  for  many  a  year  will  be  possible  in 
this  world. 

You  may,  perhaps,  be  surprised  at  my  saying  this  ;  perhaps 
surprised  at  my  implying  that  war  itself  can  be  right,  or  nec- 
essary, or  noble  at -all.  Nor  do  I  speak  of  all  war  as  neces- 
sary, nor  of  all  war  as  noble.  Both  peace  and  war  are  noble 
or  ignoble  according  to  their  kind  and  occasion.  No  man  has 
a  prof  ounder  sense  of  the  horror  and  guilt  of  ignoble  war  than 
I  have  :  I  have  personally  seen  its  effects,  upon  nations,  of  un- 
mitigated evil,  on  soul  and  body,  with  perhaps  as  much  pity, 
and  as  much  bitterness  of  indignation,  as  any  of  those  whom 
you  will  hear  continually  declaiming  in  the  cause  of  peace. 
But  peace  may  be  sought  in  two  ways.  One  way  is  as  Gideon 
sought  it,  when  he  built  his  altar  in  Ophrah,  naming  it,  <c  God 
send  peace,"  yet  sought  this  peace  that  he  loved,  as  he  was 
ordered  to  seek  it,  and  the  peace  was  sent,  in  God's  way  : — 
u  the  country  was  in  quietness  forty  years  in  the  days  of 
Gideon."  And  the  other  way  of  seeking  peace  is  as  Menahem 
sought  it  when  he  gave  the  King  of  Assyria  a  thousand  talents 
of  silver,  that  "his  hand  might  be  with  him."  That  is,  you 
may  either  win  your  peace,  or  buy  it : — win  it,  by  resistance 
to  evil ;— buy  it,  by  compromise  with  evil.    You  may  buy 


134 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


your  peace,  with  silenced  consciences  ; — you  may  buy  it,  with 
broken  vows, — buy  it,  with  lying  words, — buy  it,  with  base 
connivances, — buy  it,  with  the  blood  of  the  slain,  and  the  cry 
of  the  captive,  and  the  silence  of  lost  souls — over  hemi- 
spheres of  the  earth,  while  you  sit  smiling  at  your  serene 
hearths,  lisping  comfortable  prayers  evening  and  morning, 
and  counting  your  pretty  Protestant  beads  (which  are  flat,  and 
of  gold,  instead  of  round,  and  of  ebony,  as  the  monks'  ones 
were),  and  so  mutter  continually  to  yourselves,  "  Peace, 
peace,"  when  there  is  No  peace  ;  but  only  captivity  and  death, 
for  you,  as  well  as  for  those  you  leave  unsaved ; — and  yours 
darker  than  theirs. 

I  cannot  utter  to  you  what  I  would  in  this  matter  ;  we  all 
see  too  dimly,  as  yet,  what  our  great  world-duties  are,  to  allow 
any  of  us  to  try  to  outline  their  enlarging  shadow's.  But  think 
over  what  I  have  said,  and  as  you  return  to  your  quiet  homes 
to-night,  reflect  that  their  peace  was  not  won  for  you  by  your 
own  hands  ;  but  by  theirs  who  long  ago  jeoparded  their  lives 
for  you,  their  children  ;  and  remember  that  neither  this  in- 
herited peace,  nor  any  other,  can  be  kept,  but  through  the 
same  jeopardy.  No  peace  was  ever  won  feom  Fate  by  subter- 
fuge or  agreement;  no  peace  is  ever  in  store  for  any  of  us,  but 
that  which  wTe  shall  win  by  victory  over  shame  or  sin  ; — vic- 
tory over  the  sin  that  oppresses,  as  well  as  over  that  which 
corrupts.  For  many  a  year  to  come,  the  sword  of  every  right- 
eous nation  must  be  w7hetted  to  save  or  subdue  ;  nor  will  it 
be  by  patience  of  others'  suffering,  but  by  the  offering  of  your 
own,  that  you  ever  will  draw  nearer  to  the  time  when  the 
great  change  shall  pass  upon  the  iron  of  the  earth  ; — when 
men  shall  beat  their  swords  into  ploughshares,  and  their 
spears  into  pruning-hooks  ;  neither  shall  they  learn  war  any 
more, 


APPENDICES. 


APPENDIX  I 

RIGHT  AND  WRONG. 

Readers  who  are  using  my  Elements  of  Drawing  may  be  sur- 
prised by  my  saying  here  that  Tintoret  may  lead  them  wrong  : 
while  in  the  Elements  he  is  one  of  the  six  men  named  as  be* 
ing  "  always  right." 

I  bring  the  apparent  inconsistency  forward  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  Appendix,  because  the  illustration  of  it  will  be 
farther  useful  in  showing  the  real  nature  of  the  self-contra- 
diction which  is  often  alleged  against  me  by  careless  readers. 

It  is  not  only  possible,  but  a  frequent  condition  of  human 
action,  to  do  right  and  be  right — yet  so  as  to  mislead  other 
people  if  they  rashly  imitate  the  thing  done.  For  there  are 
many  rights  which  are  not  absolutely,  but  relatively  right — : 
right  only  for  that  person  to  do  under  those  circumstances, — ■ 
not  for  this,  person  to  do  under  other  circumstances. 

Thus  it  stands  between  Titian  and  Tintoret.  Titian  is  al- 
ways absolutely  Eight.  You  may  imitate  him  with  entire 
security  that  you  are  doing  the  best  thing  that  can  possibly 
be  done  for  the  purpose  in  hand.  Tintoret  is  always  rela- 
tively Eight — relatively  to  his  own  aims  and  peculiar  powers. 
But  you  must  quite  understand  Tintoret  before  you  can  be 
sure  what  his  aim  was,  and  why  he  was  then  right  in  doing 
what  would  not  be  right  always.  If,  however,  you  take  the 
pains  thus  to  understand  him,  he  becomes  entirely  instructive 
and  exemplary,  just  as  Titian  is  ;  and  therefore  I  have  placed 
him  among  those  are  "  always  right,"  and  you  can  only  study 
him  rightly  with  that  reverence  for  him. 


13(> 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


Then  the  artists  who  are  named  as  "  admitting  question  of 
right  and  wrong,"  are  those  who  from  some  mischance  of  cir- 
cumstance or  short-coming  in  their  education,  do  not  always 
do  right,  even  with  relation  to  their  own  aims  and  powers. 

Take  for  example  the  quality  of  imperfection  in  drawing 
form.  There  are  many  pictures  of  Tintoret  in  which  the  trees 
are  drawn  with  a  few  curved  flourishes  of  the  brush  instead 
of  leaves.  That  is  (absolutely)  wrong.  If  you  copied  the  tree 
as  a  model,  you  would  be  going  very  wrong  indeed.  But  it 
is  relatively,  and  for  Thitoret's  purposes,  right.  In  the  nature 
of  the  superficial  work  you  will  find  there  must  have  been  a 
cause  for  it.  Somebody  perhaps  wanted  the  picture  in  a 
hurry  to  fill  a  dark  corner.  Tintoret  good-naturedly  did  all 
he  could — painted  the  figures  tolerably — had  five  minutes  left 
only  for  the  trees,  when  the  servant  came.  uLet  him  wait 
another  five  minutes."  And  this  is  the  best  foliage  we  can  do 
in  the  time.  Entirely,  admirably,  unsurpassably  right,  under 
the  conditions.  Titian  would  not  have  worked  under  them, 
but  Tintoret  was  kinder  and  humbler  ;  yet  he  may  lead  you 
wrong  if  you  don't  understand  him.  Or,  perhaps,  another 
day,  somebody  came  in  while  Tintoret  was  at  work,  who  tor- 
mented Tintoret.  An  ignoble  person  !  Titian  would  have 
have  been  polite  to  him,  and  gone  on  steadily  with  his  trees. 
Tintoret  cannot  stand  the  ignobleness  ;  it  is  unendurably  re- 
pulsive and  discomfiting  to  him.  "  The  Black  Plague  take 
him— and  the  trees,  too  !  Shall  such  a  fellow  see  me  paint ! " 
And  the  trees  go  all  to  pieces.  This,  in  you,  would  be  mere 
ill-breeding  and  ill-temper.  In  Tintoret  it  was  one  of  the 
necessary  conditions  of  his  intense  sensibility  ;  had  he  been 
capable,  then,  of  keeping  his  temper,  he  could  never  have 
done  his  greatest  works.  Let  the  trees  go  to  pieces,  by  all 
means  ;  it  is  quite  right  they  should  ;  he  is  always  right. 

But  in  a  background  of  Gainsborough  you  would  find  the 
trees  unjustifiably  gone  to  pieces.  The  carelessness  of  form 
there  is  definitely  purposed  by  him  ; — adopted  as  an  advisable 
thing  ;  and  therefore  it  is  both  absolutely  and  relatively 
wrong  ; — it  indicates  his  being  imperfectly  educated  as  a 
painter,  and  not  having  brought  out  all  his  powers.    It  may 


APPENDICES. 


still  happen  that  the  man  whose  work  thus  partially  errone- 
ous is  greater  far,  than  others  who  have  fewer  faults.  Gains- 
borough's and  Reynolds'  wrongs  are  more  charming  than  al- 
most anybody  else's  right.  Still,  they  occasionally  are  wrong 
— but  the  Venetians  and  Velasquez,'"  never. 

I  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  added  in  that  Manchester  address 
(only  one  does  not  like  to  gay  things  that  shock  people)  some 
words  of  warning  against  painters  likely  to  mislead  the  stu- 
dent. For  indeed,  though  here  and  there  something  may  be 
gained  by  looking  at  inferior  men,  there  is  always  more  to  be 
gained  by  looking  at  the  best ;  and  there  is  not  time,  with  all 
the  looking  of  human  life,  to  exhaust  even  one  great  painter's 
instruction.  How  then  shall  we  dare  to  waste  our  sight  and 
thoughts  on  inferior  ones,  even  if  we  could  do  so,  which  we 
rarely  can,  without  danger  of  being  led  astray  ?  Nay,  strictly 
speaking,  what  people  call  inferior  painters  are  in  general  no 
painters.  Artists  are  divided  by  an  impassable  gulf  into  the 
men  who  can  paint,  and  who  cannot.  The  men  who  can  paint 
often  fall  short  of  what  they  should  have  done  ; — are  repressed, 
or  defeated,  or  otherwise  rendered  inferior  one  to  another: 
still  there  is  an  everlasting  barrier  between  them  and  the  men 
who  cannot  paint — who  can  only  in  various  popular  ways  pre- 
tend to  paint.  And  if  once  you  know  the  difference,  there  is 
always  some  good  to  be  got  by  looking  at  a  real  painter — 
seldom  anything  but  mischief  to  be  got  out  of  a  false  one  ; 
but  do  not  suppose  real  painters  are  common.  I  do  not  speak 
of  living  men ;  but  among  those  who  labour  no  more,  in  this 
England  of  ours,  since  it  first  had  a  school,  we  have  had  only 
five  real  painters ; — Reynolds,  Gainsborough,  Hogarth,  Rich- 
ard Wilson,  and  Turner. 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  think  I  have  forgotten  Wiikie. 
No.  I  once  much  overrated  him  as  an  expressional  draughts- 
man, not  having  then  studied  the  figure  long  enough  to  be 
able  to  detect  superficial  sentiment.  But  his  colour  I  have 
never  praised  ;  it  is  entirely  false  and  valueless.  And  it  would 
be  unjust  to  English  art  if  I  did  not  here  express  my  regret 

*  At  least  after  his  style  was  formed  ;  early  pictures,  like  the  Adora- 
tion of  the  Magi  in  our  Gallery,  are  of  little  value. 


13S 


THE  TWO  PATER 


that  the  admiration  of  Constable,  already  harmful  enough  in 
England,  is  extending  even  into  France.  There  was,  perhaps, 
the  making,  in  Constable,  of  a  second  or  third-rate  painter,  if 
any  careful  discipline  had  developed  in  him  the  instincts 
which,  though  unparalleled  for  narrowness,  were,  as  far  as 
they  went,  true.  But  as  it  is,  he  is  nothing  more  than  an 
industrious  and  innocent  amateur  blundering  his  way  to  a 
superficial  expression  of  one  or  two  popular  aspects  of  com- 
mon  nature. 

And  my  readers  may  depend  upon  it,  that  all  blame  which 
I  express  in  this  sweeping  way  is  trustworthy.  I  have  often 
had  to  repent  of  over-praise  of  inferior  men  ;  and  continually 
to  repent  of  insufficient  praise  of  great  men  ;  but  of  broad 
condemnation,  never.  For  I  do  not  speak  it  but  after  the 
most  searching  examination  of  the  matter,  and  under  stern 
sense  of  need  for  it  :  so  that  whenever  the  reader  is  entirely 
shocked  by  what  I  say,  he  may  be  assured  every  word  is  true.* 
It  is  just  because  it  so  much  offends  him,  that  it  was  neces- 
sary :  and  knowing  that  it  must  offend  him,  I  should  not  have 
ventured  to  say  it,  without  certainty  of  its  truth.  I  say  "  cer- 
tainty," for  it  is  just  as  possible  to  be  certain  whether  the 
drawing  of  a  tree  or  a  stone  is  true  or  false,  as  whether  the 
drawing  of  a  triangle  is  ;  and  what  I  mean  primarily  by  say- 
ing that  a  picture  is  in  all  respects  worthless,  is  that  it  is  in 
all  respects  False :  which  is  not  a  matter  of  opinion  at  all,  but 
a  matter  of  ascertainable  fact,  such  as  I  never  assert  till  I  have 
ascertained.  And  the  thing  so  commonly  said  about  my  writ- 
ings, that  they  are  rather  persuasive  than  just;  and  that  though 
my  "language"  may  be  good,  I  am  an  unsafe  guide  in  art 
criticism,  is,  like  many  other  popular  estimates  in  such  mat- 
ters, not  merely  untrue,  but  precisely  the  reverse  of  the  truth  ; 
it  is  truth,  like  reflections  in  water,  distorted  much  by  the 
shaking  receptive  surface,  and  in  every  particular,  upside 

*  He  must,  however,  be  careful  to  distinguish  blame — however  strongly 
expressed,  of  some  special  fault  or  error  in  a  true  painter, — from  these 
general  statements  of  inferiority  or  worthlessness.  Thus  he  will  find 
me  continually  laughing  at  Wilson's  tree-painting ;  not  because  Wilson 
could  not  paint,  but  because  he  had  never  looked  at  a  tree. 


APPENDICES. 


139 


down.  For  my  "  language,"  until  within  the  last  six  or  seven 
years,  was  loose,  obscure,  and  more  or  less  feeble  ;  and  still, 
though  I  have  tried  hard  to  mend  it,  the  best  I  can  do  is  in- 
ferior to  much  contemporary  work.  No  description  that  I 
have  ever  given  of  anything  is  worth  four  lines  of  Tennyson  ; 
and  in  serious  thought,  my  half-pages  are  generally  only 
worth  about  as  much  as  a  single  sentence  either  of  his,  or  of 
Carlyle's.  They  are,  I  well  fcrust,  as  true  and  necessary  ;  but 
they  are  neither  so  concentrated  nor  so  well  put.  But  I  am 
an  entirely  safe  guide  in  art  judgment :  and  that  simply  as  the 
necessary  result  of  my  having  given  the  labour  of  life  to  the 
determination  of  facts,  rather  than  to  the  following  of  feelings 
or  theories.  Not,  indeed,  that  my  work  is  free  from  mistakes ; 
it  admits  many,  and  always  must  admit  many,  from  its  scat- 
tered range ;  but,  in  the  long  run,  it  will  be  found  to  enter 
sternly  and  searchingly  into  the  nature  of  what  it  deals  with, 
and  the  kind  of  mistake  it  admits  is  never  dangerous,  consist- 
ing, usually,  in  pressing  the  truth  too  far.  It  is  quite  easy, 
for  instance,  to  take  an  accidental  irregularity  in  a  piece  of 
architecture,  which  less  careful  examination  would  never  have 
detected  at  all,  for  an  intentional  irregularity  ;  quite  possible 
to  misinterpret  an  obscure  passage  in  a  picture,  which  a  less 
earnest  observer  would  never  have  tried  to  interpret.  But 
mistakes  of  this  kind — honest,  enthusiastic  mistakes — are 
never  harmful ;  because  they  are  always  made  in  a  true  direc- 
tion,— falls  forward  on  the  road,  not  into  the  ditch  beside  it ; 
and  they  are  sure  to  be  corrected  by  the  next  comer.  But 
the  blunt  and  dead  mistakes  made  by  too  many  other  writers 
on  art— the  mistakes  of  sheer  inattention,  and  want  of  sym- 
pathy-— are  mortal.  The  entire  purpose  of  a  great  thinker 
may  be  difficult  to  fathom,  and  we  may  be  over  and  over  again 
more  or  less  mistaken  in  guessing  at  his  meaning ;  but  the 
real,  profound,  nay,  quite  bottomless,  and  unredeemable  mis- 
take, is  the  fool's  thought — that  he  had  no  meaning. 

I  do  not  refer,  in  saying  this,  to  any  of  my  statements  re- 
specting subjects  wThich  it  has  been  my  main  work  to  study  : 
as  far  as  I  am  aware,  I  have  never  yet  misinterpreted  any 
picture  of  Turner's,  though  often  remaining  blind  to  the  half 


140 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


of  what  he  had  intended  :  neither  have  I  as  yet  found  any- 
thing to  correct  in  my  statements  respecting  Venetian  archi- 
tecture ;  *  but  in  casual  references  to  what  has  been  quickly 
seen,  it  is  impossible  to  guard  wholly  against  error,  without 
losing  much  valuable  observation,  true  in  ninety-nine  cases 
out  of  a  hundred,  and  harmless  even  when  erroneous. 

APPENDIX  n. 

REYNOLDS*  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

It  is  very  fortunate  that  in  the  fragment  of  Mason's  MSS., 
published  lately  by  Mr.  Cotton  in  his  "  Sir  Joshua  Keynolds5 
Notes,"  j  record  is  preserved  of  Sir  Joshua's  feelings  respect- 
ing the  paintings  in  the  window  of  New  College,  which  might 
otherwise  have  been  supposed  to  give  his  full  sanction  to  this 
mode  of  painting  on  glass.  Nothing  can  possibly  be  more 
curious,  to  my  mind,  than  the  great  paintei's  expectations  ; 
or  his  having  at  all  entertained  the  idea  that  the  qualities  of 
colour  which  are  peculiar  to  opaque  bodies  could  be  obtained 
in  a  transparent  medium  ;  but  so  it  is  :  and  with  the  simplic- 
ity and  humbleness  of  an  entirely  great  man  he  hopes  that 
Mr.  Jervas  on  glass  is  to  excel  Sir  Joshua  on  canvas.  Hap- 
pily, Mason  tells  us  the  result. 

With  the  copy  Jervas  made  of  this  picture  he  was  griev- 
ously disappointed.  6 1  had  frequently,'  he  said  to  me, 
c  pleased  myself  by  reflecting,  after  I  had  produced  what  I 
thought  a  brilliant  effect  of  light  and  shadow  on  my  canvas, 
how  greatly  that  effect  would  be  heightened  by  the  trans- 
parency  which  the  painting  on  glass  would  be  sure  to  pro- 
duce.   It  turned  out  quite  the  reverse.'" 

*  The  subtle  portions  of  the  Byzantine  Palaces,  given  in  precise  meas- 
urements in  the  second  volume  of  the  "  Stones  of  Venice,  '  were  alleged 
by  architects  to  be  accidental  irregularities.  They  will  be  found,  by 
every  one  who  will  take  the  pains  to  examine  them,  most  assuredly  and 
indisputably  intentional, — and  not  only  so,  but  one  of  the  principal 
subjects  of  the  designers  care. 

f  Smith,  Soho  Square,  1859. 


APPENDICES. 


141 


APPENDIX  in. 

CLASSICAL  ARCHITECTURE. 

This  passage  in  the  lecture  was  illustrated  by  an  enlargement 
of  the  woodcut,  Fig.  1  ;  but  I  did  not  choose  to  disfigure  the 
middle  of  this  book  with  it.  It  is  copied  from  the  49th  plate 
of  the  third  edition  of  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  (Edin- 
burgh, 1797),  and  represents  an  English  farmhouse  arranged 


Fig.  1. 


on  classical  principles.  If  the  reader  cares  to  consult  the 
work  itself,  he  will  find  in  the  same  plate  another  composi- 
tion of  similar  propriety,  and  dignified  by  the  addition  of  a 
pediment,  beneath  the  shadow  of  which  "a  private  gentleman 
who  has  a  small  family  may  find  conveniency." 


APPENDIX  IV. 

SUBTLETY  OF  HAND. 

I  had  intended  in  one  or  other  of  these  lectures  to  have 
spoken  at  some  length  of  the  quality  of  refinement  in  Colour, 
but  found  the  subject  would  lead  me  too  far.    A  few  words 


142 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


are,  however,  necessary  in  order  to  explain  some  expressions 
in  the  text. 

"  Refinement  In  colour  "  is  indeed  a  tautological  expression, 
for  colour,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  does  not  exist  until 
it  is  refined.  Dirt  exists, — stains  exist, — and  pigments  exist, 
easily  enough  in  all  places  ;  and  are  laid  on  easily  enough  by 
all  hands  ;  but  colour  exists  only  where  there  is  tenderness, 
and  can  be  laid  on  only  by  a  hand  which  has  strong  life  in  it. 
The  law  concerning  colour  is  very  strange,  very  noble,  in  some 
sense  almost  awful.  In  every  given  touch  laid  on  canvas,  if 
one  grain  of  the  colour  is  inoperative,  and  does  not  take  its 
full  part  in  producing  the  hue,  the  hue  will  be  imperfect. 
The  grain  of  colour  which  does  not  work  is  dead.  It  infects 
all  about  it  with  its  death.  It  must  be  got  quit  of,  or  the 
touch  is  spoiled.  We  acknowledge  this  instinctively  in  our 
use  of  the  phrases  "dead  colour,"  "killed  colour,"  "foul 
colour."  Those  words  are,  in  some  sort,  literally  true.  If 
more  colour  is  put  on  than  is  necessary,  a  heavy  touch  when 
a  light  one  would  have  been  enough,  the  quantity  of  colour 
that  was  not  wanted,  and  is  overlaid  by  the  rest,  is  as  dead, 
and  it  pollutes  the  rest.  There  will  be  no  good  in  the 
touch. 

The  art  of  painting,  properly  so  called,  consists  in  laying 
on  the  least  possible  colour  that  will  produce  the  required  re- 
sult, and  this  measurement,  in  all  the  ultimate,  that  is  to  say, 
the  principal,  operations  of  colouring,  is  so  delicate  that  not 
one  human  hand  in  a  million  has  the  required  lightness.  The 
final  touch  of  any  painter  properly  so  named,  of  Correggio — ■ 
Titian --Turner — or  Reynolds — would  be  always  quite  invisi- 
ble to  any  one  watching  the  progress  of  the  wrork,  the  films  of 
hue  being  laid  thinner  than  the  depths  of  the  grooves  in 
mother-of-pearl.  The  work  may  be  swift,  apparently  careless, 
nay,  to  the  painter  himself  almost  unconscious.  Great  painters 
are  so  organized  that  they  do  their  best  work  without  effort ; 
but  analyze  the  touches  afterwards,  and  you  will  find  the  struct- 
ure and  depth  of  the  colour  laid  mathematically  demonstrable 
to  be  of  literally  infinite  fineness,  the  last  touches  passing  away 
at  their  edges  by  untraceable  gradation.    The  very  essence  of 


APPENDICES. 


143 


a  master's  work  may  thus  be  removed  by  a  picture-cleaner  in 
ten  minutes. 

Observe,  however,  this  thinness  exists  only  in  portions  of 
the  ultimate  touches,  for  which  the  preparation  may  often  have 
been  made  with  solid  colours,  commonly,  and  literally,  called 
"  dead  colouring,"  but  even  that  is  alwa}rs  subtle  if  a  master 
lays  it — subtle  at  least  in  drawing,  if  simple  in  hue  ;  and  far- 
ther, observe  that  the  refinement  of  work  consists  not  in  lay- 
ing absolutely  little  colour,  but  in  always  laying  precisely  the 
right  quantity.  To  lay  on  little  needs  indeed  the  rare  light- 
ness of  hand  ;  but  to  lay  much, — yet  not  one  atom  too  much, 
and  obtain  subtlety,  not  by  withholding  strength,  but  by  pre- 
cision of  pause, — that  is  the  master's  final  sign-manual — power, 
knowledge,  and  tenderness  ail  united.  A  great  deal  of  colour 
may  often  be  wanted  ;  perhaps  quite  a  mass  of  it,  such  as  shall 
project  from  the  canvas  ;  but  the  real  painter  lays  this  mass 
of  its  required  thickness  and  shape  with  as  much  precision  as 
if  it  were  a  bud  of  a  flower  which  he  had  to  touch  into  blos- 
som ;  one  of  Turner's  loaded  fragments  of  white  cloud  is  mod- 
elled and  gradated  in  an  instant,  as  if  it  alone  were  the  sub- 
ject of  the  picture,  when  the  same  quantity  of  colour,  under 
another  hand,  would  be  a  lifeless  lump. 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  in  the  Literary  Gazette 
of  13th  November,  1858,  which  I  was  obliged  to  write  to  de- 
fend a  questioned  expression  respecting  Turner's  subtlety  of 
hand  from  a  charge  of  hyperbole,  contains  some  interesting 
and  conclusive  evidence  on  the  point,  though  it  refers  to 
pencil  and  chalk  drawing  only  : — 

"  I  must  ask  }rou  to  allow  me  yet  leave  to  reply  to  the  ob- 
jections you  make  to  two  statements  in  my  catalogue,  as  those 
objections  would  otherwise  diminish  its  usefulness.  I  have 
asserted  that,  in  a  given  drawing  (named  as  one  of  the  chief  in 
the  series),  Turner's  pencil  did  not  move  over  the  thousandth  of 
an  inch  without  meaning  ;  atid  you  charge  this  expression  with 
extravagant  hyperbole.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  much  within 
the  truth,  being  merely  a  mathematically  accurate  description 
of  fairly  good  execution  in  either  drawing  or  engraving.  It  is 
only  necessary  to  measure  a  piece  of  any  ordinary  good  work  to 


1U 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


ascertain  this.  Take,  for  instance,  Finden's  engraving  at  the 
180th  page  of  Rogers'  poems  ;  in  which  the  face  of  the  figure, 
from  the  chin  to  the  top  of  the  brow,  occupies  just  a  quarter 
of  an  inch,  and  the  space  between  the  upper  lip  and  chin  as 
nearly  as  possible  one-seventeenth  of  an  inch.  The  whole 
mouth  occupies  one-third  of  this  space,  say  one-fiftieth  of  an 
inch,  and  within  that  space  both  the  lips  and  the  much  more 
difficult  inner  corner  of  the  mouth  are  perfectly  drawn  and 
rounded,  with  quite  successful  and  sufficiently  subtle  expression. 
Any  artist  will  assure  you  that  in  order  to  draw  a  mouth  as  well 
as  this,  there  must  be  more  than  twenty  gradations  of  shade  in 
the  touches ;  that  is  to  say,  in  this  case,  gradations  changing, 
with  meaning,  within  less  than  the  thousandth  of  an  inch. 

"But  this  is  mere  child's  play  compared  to  the  refinement 
of  a  first-rate  mechanical  work — much  more  of  brush  or  pencil 
drawing  by  a  master's  hand.  In  order  at  once  to  furnish  you 
with  authoritative  evidence  on  this  point,  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Kings- 
ley,  tutor  of  Sidney-Sussex  College,  a  friend  to  whom  I  always 
have  recourse  when  I  want  to  be  precisely  right  in  any  matter ; 
for  his  great  knowledge  both  of  mathematics  and  of  natural 
science  is  joined,  not  only  with  singular  powers  of  delicate 
experimental  manipulation,  but  with  a  keen  sensitiveness  to 
beauty  in  art.  His  answer,  in  its  final  statement  respecting 
Turner's  work,  is  amazing  even  to  me,  and  will,  I  should  think, 
be  more  so  to  your  readers.  Observe  the  successions  of  meas- 
ured and  tested  refinement :  here  is  No.  1 : — 

" '  The  finest  mechanical  work  that  I  know,  which  is  not 
optical,  is  that  done  by  Nobert  in  the  way  of  ruling  lines.  I 
have  a  series  ruled  by  him  on  glass,  giving  actual  scales  from 
•000024  and  -000016  of  an  inch,  perfectly  correct  to  these  places 
of  decimals,  and  he  has  executed  others  as  fine  as  *000012, 
though  I  do  not  know  how  far  he  could  repeat  these  last  with 
accuracy.' 

"  This  is  No.  1,  of  precision.  Mr.  Kingsley  proceeds  to 
No.  2  :— 

"  '  But  this  is  rude  wrork  compared  to  the  accuracy  necessary 
for  the  construction  of  the  object-glass  of  a  microscope  such 
as  Rosse  turns  out.' 


APPENDICES. 


145 


"I  am  sorry  to  omit  the  explanation  which  follows  of  the 
ten  lenses  composing  such  a  glass,  '  each  of  which  must  be 
exact  in  radius  and  in  surface,  and  all  have  their  axes  coinci- 
dent :  *  but  it  wrould  not  be  intelligible  without  the  figure  by 
which  it  is  illustrated  ;  so  I  pass  to  Mr.  Kingsley's  No.  3  : — 

"'I  am  tolerably  familiar/  he  proceeds,  'with  the  actual 
grinding  and  polishing  of  lenses  and  specula,  and  have  pro- 
duced by  ray  own  hand  some  by  no  means  bad  optical  work,  and 
I  have  copied  no  small  amount  of  Turner's  wrork,  and  I  dill  look 
with  awe  at  the  combined  delicacy  and  precision  of  his  hand  ;  it 
beats  optical  work  out  of  siaHT.  In  optical  work,  as  in  refined 
drawing,  the  hand  goes  beyond  the  eye,  and  one  has  to  depend 
upon  the  feel  ;  and  when  one  has  once  learned  what  a  delicate 
affair  touch  is,  one  gets  a  horror  of  all  coarse  work,  and  is 
ready  to  forgive  any  amount  of  feebleness,  sooner  than  that 
boldness  which  is  akin  to  impudence.  In  optics  the  distinc- 
tion is  easily  seen  when  the  work  is  put  to  trial ;  but  here  too, 
as  in  drawing,  it  requires  an  educated  eye  to  tell  the  differ- 
ence when  the  work  is  only  moderately  bad  ;  but  with  s'f  bold  " 
work,  nothing  can  be  seen  but  distortion  and  fog  :  and  I 
heartily  wish  the  same  result  would  follow  the  same  kind 
of  handling  in  drawing  ;  but  here,  the  boldness  cheats  the  un- 
learned by  looking  like  the  precision  of  the  true  man.  It  is 
very  strange  how  much  better  our  ears  are  than  our  eyes  in  this 
country  :  if  an  ignorant  man  were  to  be  "  bold  "  with  a  violin, 
he  would  not  get  many  admirers,  though  his  boldness  was  far 
below  that  of  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  drawings  one  sees.' 

"  The  words  which  I  have  put  in  italics  in  the  above  extract 
are  those  which  wrere  surprising  to  me.  I  knew  that  Turner's 
was  as  refined  as  any  optical  work,  but  had  no  idea  of  its  go- 
ing beyond  it.  Mr.  Kingsley's  word  '  awe'  occurring  just  be- 
fore, is,  however,  as  I  have  often  felt,  precisely  the  right  one. 
When  once  we  begin  at  all  to  understand  the  handling  of  any 
truly  great  executor,  such  as  that  of  any  of  the  three  great  Ve- 
netians, of  Correggio,  or  Turner,  the  awe  of  it  is  something 
greater  than  can  be  felt  from  the  most  stupendous  natural 
scenery.  For  the  creation  of  such  a  system  as  a  high  human 
intelligence,  endowed  with  its  ineffably  perfect  instruments  of 


140 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


eye  and  hand,  is  a  far  more  appalling  manifestation  of  Infinita 
Power,  than  the  making  either  of  seas  or  mountains. 

"  After  this  testimony  to  the  completion  of  Turner's  work, 
I  need  not  at  length  defend  myself  from  the  charge  of  hyper- 
bole in  the  statement  that,  '  as  far  as  I  know,  the  galleries  of 
Europe  may  be  challenged  to  produce  one  sketch  *  that  shall 
equal  the  chalk  study  No.  45,  or  the  feeblest  of  the  memoranda 
in  the  71st  and  following  frames  ; ?  which  memoranda,  how- 
ever, it  should  have  been  observed,  are  stated  at  the  44th 
page  to  be  in  some  respects  '  the  grandest  wrork  in  grey  that 
he  did  in  his  life.'  For  I  believe  that,  as  manipulators,  none 
but  the  four  men  whom  I  have  just  named  (the  three  Vene- 
tians and  Correggio)  were  equal  to  Turner  ;  and,  as  far  as  I 
know,  none  of  those  four  ever  put  their  full  strength  into 
sketches.  But  whether  they  did  or  not,  my  statement  in  the 
catalogue  is  limited  by  my  own  knowledge  :  and,  as  far  as  I 
can  trust  that  knowledge,  it  is  not  an  enthusiastic  statement, 
but  an  entirely  calm  and  considered  one.  It  may  be  a  mistake 
but  it  is  not  a  hyperbole." 


APPENDIX  V. 

I  can  only  give,  to  illustrate  this  balcony,  fac-similes  of  rough 
memoranda  made  on  a  single  leaf  of  my  note-book,  with  a 
tired  hand  ;  but  it  may  be  useful  to  young  students  to  see  them, 
in  order  that  they  may  know  the  difference  between  notes  made 
to  get  at  the  gist  and  heart  of  a  thing,  and  notes  made  merely 
to  look  neat.  Only  it  must  be  observed  that  the  best  characters 
of  free  drawing  are  always  lost  even  in  the  most  careful  fac- 
simile ;  and  I  should  not  show  even  these  slight  notes  in  wood- 
cut imitation,  unless  the  reader  had  it  in  his  power,  by  a 

*  A  sketch,  observe, — not  a  finished  drawing.  Sketches  are  only 
proper  subjects  of  comparison  with  each  other  when  they  contain  about 
the  same  quantity  of  work  :  the  test  of  their  merit  is  the  quantity  of 
truth  told  with  a  given  number  of  touches.  The  assertion  in  the  Cata- 
logue which  this  letter  was  written  to  defend,  was  made  respecting  th* 
sketch  of  Rome,  No,  101. 


APPENDICES. 


147 


glance  at  the  21st  or  35th  plates  in  Modern  Painters  (and  yet 
better,  by  trying  to  copy  a  piece  of  either  of  them),  to  ascer- 
tain how  far  I  can  draw  or  not.  I  refer  to  these  plates,  be- 
cause, though  I  distinctly  stated  in  the  preface  that  they,  to- 
gether with  the  12th,  20th,  34th,  and  37th,  were  executed  on 
the  steel  by  my  own  hand,  (the  use  of  the  dry  point  in  the 
foregrounds  of  the  12th  and  21st  plates  being  moreover  wholly 
different  from  the  common  processes  of  etching)  I  'find  it 
constantly  assumed  that  they  were  engraved  for  me — as  if 
direct  lying  in  such  matters  were  a  thing  of  quite  common 
usage. 

Fig.  2  is  the  centre-piece  of  the  balcony,  but  a  leaf-spray  is 


Fig.  2. 

omitted  on  the  right-hand  side,  having 
been  too  much  buried  among  the  real 
leaves  to  be  drawn. 

Fig.  3  shows  the  intended  general  ef- 
fect of  its  masses,  the  five-leaved  and  six- 
leaved  flowers  being  clearly  distinguish- 
able at  any  distance.  pIG<  3. 

Fig.  4  is  its  profile,  rather  carefully  drawn  at  the  top,  to 
show  the  tulip  and  turkscap  lily  leaves.  Underneath  there  is 
a  plate  of  iron  beaten  into  broad  thin  leaves,  which  gives  the 


148 


THE  TWO  PATHS, 


centre  of  the  balcony  a  gradual  sweep  outwards,  like  the  side 
of  a  ship  of  war.    The  central  profile  is  of  the  greatest  im- 


Fig.  4. 


portance  in  ironwork,  as  the  flow  of  it  affects  the  curves  of 
the  whole  design,  not  merely  in  surface,  as  in  marble  carving, 
but  in  their  intersections,  when  the  side  is  seen  through  the 
front.    The  lighter  leaves,  b  b,  are  real  bindweed. 


APPENDICES, 


149 


Fig.  5  shows  two  of  the  teeth  of  the  border,  illustrating 
their  irregularity  of  form,  which  takes  place  quite  to  the  ex- 
tent indicated. 

Fig.  6  is  the  border  at  the  side  of  the  balcony,  showing  the 
most  interesting  circumstance  in  the  treatment  of  the  whole, 
namely,  the  enlargement  and  retraction  of  the  teeth  of  the 
cornice,  as  it  approaches  the  wall.    This  treatment  of  the 


Fig.  5.  Fig.  6. 


whole  cornice  as  a  kind  of  wreath  round  the  balcony,  having 
its  leaves  flung  loose  at  the  back,  and  set  close  at  the  front,  as 
a  girl  would  throw  a  wreath  of  leaves  round  her  hair,  is  pre- 
cisely the  most  finished  indication  of  a  good  workman's  mind 
to  be  found  in  the  whole  thing. 

Fig.  7  shows  the  outline  of  the  retracted  leaves  accurately. 


Fig.  7. 


It  was  noted  in  the  text  that  the  whole  of  this  ironwork 
had  been  coloured.  The  difficulty  of  colouring  ironwork 
rightly,  and  the  necessity  of  doing  it  in  some  way  or  other, 
have  been  the  principal  reasons  for  my  never  having  entered 
heartily  into  this  subject ;  for  all  the  ironwork  I  have  ever 
seen  look  beautiful  was  rusty,  and  rusty  iron  will  not  answer 
modern  purposes.  Nevertheless  it  may  be  painted,  but  it 
needs  some  one  to  do  it  who  knows  wrhat  painting  means,  and 
few  of  us  do — certainly  none,  as  yet,  of  our  restorers  of  deco* 
ration  or  writers  on  colour. 


150 


THE  TWO  FATES. 


It  is  a  marvellous  thing  to  me  that  book  after  book  should 
appear  on  this  last  subject,  without  apparently  the  slightest 
consciousness  on  the  part  of  the  writers  that  the  first  necessity 
of  beauty  in  colour  is  gradation,  as  the  first  necessity  of 
beauty  in  line  is  curvature, — or  that  the  second  necessity  in 
colour  is  mystery  or  subtlety,  as  the  second  necessity  in  line 
is  softness.  Colour  ungradated  is  wholly  valueless  ;  colour 
unmysterious  is  wholly  barbarous.  Unless  it  looses  itself  and 
melts  away  towards  other  colours,  as  a  true  line  loses  itself 
and  melts  away  towards  other  lines,  colour  has  no  proper  ex- 
istence) in  the  noble  sense  of  the  word.  What  a  cube,  or 
tetrahedron,  is  to  organic  form,  ungradated  and  unconfused 
colour  is  to  organic  colour  ;  and  a  person  who  attempts  to  ar- 
range colour  harmonies  without  gradation  of  tint  is  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  category,  as  an  artist  who  should  try  to  com- 
pose a  beautiful  picture  out  of  an  accumulation  of  cubes  and 
parallelopipeds. 

The  value  of  hue  in  all  illuminations  on  painted  glass  of 
fine  periods  depends  primarily  on  the  expedients  used  to 
make  the  colours  palpitate  and  fluctuate  ;  inequality  of  brill- 
iancy being  the  condition  of  brilliancy,  just  as  inequality  of 
accent  is  the  condition  of  power  and  loveliness  in  sound.  The 
skill  with  which  the  thirteenth  century  illuminators  in  books, 
and  the  Indians  in  shawls  and  carpets,  use  the  minutest  atoms 
of  colour  to  gradate  other  colors,  and  confuse  the  eye,  is  the 
first  secret  in  their  gift  of  splendour :  associated,  however, 
with  so  many  other  artifices  which  are  quite  instinctive  and 
unteachable,  that  it  is  of  little  use  to  dwell  upon  them.  Deli- 
cacy of  organization  in  the  designer  given,  you  will  soon  have 
all,  and  without  it,  nothing.  However,  not  to  close  my  book 
with  desponding  wTords,  let  me  set  down,  as  many  of  us  like 
such  things,  five  Laws  to  which  there  is  no  exception  what- 
ever, and  which,  if  they  can  enable  no  one  to  produce  good 
colour,  are  at  least,  as  far  as  they  reach,  accurately  condem- 
natory of  bad  colour. 

1,  All  good  colour  is  gradated.  A  blush  rose  (or,  better 
still,  a  blush  itself),  is  the  type  of  lightness  in  arrangement  of 
pure  hue. 


APPENDICES. 


151 


2.  All  harmonies  of  colour  depend  for  their  vitality  on 
the  action  and  helpful  operation  of  every  particle  of  colour, 
they  contain. 

3.  The  final  particles  of  colour  necessary  to  the  complete- 
ness OF  A  COLOUR  HARMONY  ARE  ALWAYS  INFINITELY   SMALL  ;  either 

laid  by  immeasurably  subtle  touches  of  the  pencil,  or  pro- 
duced by  portions  of  the  colouring  substance,  however  dis- 
tributed, which  are  so  absolutely  small  as  to  become  at  the  in- 
tended distance  infinitely  so  to  the  eye. 

4.  No  COLOUR  HARMONY  IS  OF  HIGH  ORDER  UNLESS  IT  INVOLVES 

indescribable  tints.  It  is  the  best  possible  sign  of  a  colour 
when  nobody  wrho  sees  it  knows  what  to  call  it,  or  how  to  give 
an  idea  of  it  to  any  one  else.  Even  among  simple  hues  the 
most  valuable  are  those  which  cannot  be  defined  ;  the  most 
precious  purples  will  look  brown  beside  pure  purple,  and 
purple  beside  pure  brown  ;  and  the  most  precious  greens 
will  be  called  blue  if  seen  beside  pure  green,  and  green  if 
seen  beside  pure  blue. 

5.  The  flner  the  eye  for  colour,  the  less  it  will  require  to 
gratify  it  intensely.  But  that  little  must  be  supremely  good 
and  pure,  as  the  finest  notes  of  a  great  singer,  which  are  so 
near  to  silence.  And  a  great  colourist  will  make  even  the  ab- 
sence of  colour  lovely,  as  the  fading  of  the  perfect  voice  makes 
silence  sacred. 


LOVE'S  MEINIE 

LECTURES  ON  GREEK  AND  ENGLISH  BIRDS 

GIVEN  BEFORE  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD 


AD  YIOE. 


I  publish  these  lectures  at  present  roughly,  in  the  form  in 
which  they  were  delivered, — (necessarily  more  brief  and  broken 
than  that  which  may  be  permitted  when  time  is  not  limited,) 
— because  I  know  that  some  of  their  hearers  wished  to  obtain 
them  for  immediate  reference.  Ultimately,  I  hope,  they  will 
be  completed  in  an  illustrated  volume,  containing  at  least  six 
lectures,  on  the  Robin,  the  SwTallow,  the  Chough,  the  Lark, 
the  Swan,  and  the  Sea-gull.  But  months  pass  by  me  now, 
like  days  ;  and  my  work  remains  only  in  design.  I  think  it 
better,  therefore,  to  let  the  lectures  appear  separately,  with 
provisional  wood-cuts,  afterwards  to  be  bettered,  or  replaced 
by  more  finished  engravings.  The  illustrated  volume,  if  ever 
finished,  will  cost  a  guinea  ;  but  these  separate  lectures  a  shil- 
ling, or,  if  long,  one  shilling  and  sixpence  each.  The  guinea's 
worth  will,  perhaps,  be  the  cheaper  book  in  the  end  ;  but  I 
shall  be  glad  if  some  of  my  hearers  feel  interest  enough  in  the 
subject  to  prevent  their  waiting  for  it. 

The  modern  vulgarization  of  the  word  "  advertisement " 
renders,  I  think,  the  use  of  c  advice '  as  above,  in  the  sense  of 
the  French  '  avis '  (passing  into  our  old  English  verb  '  avise  ') 
on  the  whole,  preferable. 

Brantwood, 

June,  1873. 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


u  II  etoit  tout  couvert  d'oisiaulx." 

Romance  of  the  frosE. 


LECTUEE  I. 

THE  ROBIN. 

1.  Among  the  more  splendid  pictures  in  the  Exhibition  of 
the  Old  Masters,  this  year,  you  cannot  but  remember  the 
Vandyke  portraits  of  the  two  sons  of  the  Duke  of  Lennox.  J 
think  you  cannot  but  remember  it,  because  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find,  even  among  the  works  of  Vandyke,  a  more  strik- 
ing representation  of  the  youth  of  our  English  noblesse  ;  nor 
one  in  which  the  painter  had  more  exerted  himself,  or  with 
better  success,  in  rendering  the  decorous  pride  and  natural 
grace  of  honourable  aristocracy. 

Vandyke  is,  however,  inferior  to  Titian  and  Velasquez,  in 
that  his  effort  to  show  this  noblesse  of  air  and  persons  7  nay 
always  be  detected  ;  also  the  aristocracy  of  Vandyke's  day  vere 
already  so  far  fearful  of  their  own  position  as  to  feel  anxiety 
that  it  should  be  immediately  recognized.  And  the  effect  of 
the  painter's  conscious  deference,  and  of  the  equally  conscious 
pride  of  the  bo^s,  as  they  stood  to  be  painted,  has  been  some- 
what to  shorten  the  power  of  the  one,  and  to  abase  the  dig- 
nity of  the  other.  And  thus,  in  the  midst  of  my  admiration 
of  the  youths'  beautiful  faces,  and  natural  quality  of  majesty, 
set  off  by  all  splendours  of  dress  and  courtesies  of  art,  I  could 
not  forbear  questioning  with  myself  what  the  true  value  was, 
in  the  scales  of  creation,  of  these  fair  human  beings  who  set 
so  high  a  value  on  themselves  ;  and, — as  if  the  only  answer, 


158 


LOVE'S  ME1NIE. 


— the  words  kept  repeating  themselves  in  my  ear,  "  Ye  are 
of  more  value  than  many  sparrows." 

2.  Passeres,  arpovOoi, — the  things  that  open  their  wings, 
and  are  not  otherwise  noticeable  ;  small  birds  of  the  land  and 
wood  ;  the  food  of  the  serpent,  of  man,  or  of  the  stronger 
creatures  of  their  own  kind, — that  even  these,  though  among 
the  simplest  and  obscurest  of  beings,  have  yet  price  in  the 
eyes  of  their  Maker,  and  that  the  death  of  one  of  them  cannot 
take  place  but  by  His  permission,  has  long  been  the  subject 
of  declamation  in  our  pulpits,  and  the  ground  of  much  senti- 
ment in  nursery  education.  But  the  declamation  is  so  aim- 
less, and  the  sentiment  so  hollow,  that,  practically,  the  chief 
interest  of  the  leisure  of  mankind  has  been  found  in  the  de- 
struction of  the  creatures  which  they  professed  to  believe  even 
the  Most  High  would  not  see  perish  without  pity  ;  and,  in  re- 
cent days,  it  is  fast  becoming  the  only  definition  of  aristoc- 
racy, that  the  principal  business  of  its  life  is  the  killing  of 
sparrows. 

Sparrows,  or  pigeons,  or  partridges,  what  does  it  matter? 
"  Centum  mille  perdrices  plumbo  confecit ;  "  *  that  is,  indeed, 
too  often  the  sum  of  the  life  of  an  English  lord  ;  much  ques- 
tionable now,  if  indeed  of  more  value  than  that  of  many  spar- 
rows. 

3.  Is  it  not  a  strange  fact,  that,  interested  in  nothing  so 
much  for  the  last  two  hundred  years,  as  in  his  horses,  he  yet 
left  it  to  the  farmers  of  Scotland  to  relieve  draught  horses 
from  the  bearing-rein  ;  f  is  it  not  one  equally  strange  that, 
master  of  the  forests  of  England  for  a  thousand  years,  and  of 
its  libraries  for  three  hundred,  he  left  the  natural  history  of 
birds  to  be  written  by  a  card-printer's  lad  of  Newcastle? 
Written,  and  not  written,  for  indeed  we  have  no  natural  his- 
tory of  birds  written  yet.  It  cannot  be  written  but  by  a 
scholar  and  a  gentleman ;  and  no  English  gentleman  in  re- 
cent times  has  ever  thought  of  birds  except  as  flying  targets, 
or  flavourous  dishes.  The  only  piece  of  natural  history  worth 
the  name  in  the  English  language,  that  I  know  of,  is  in  the 

*  The  epitaph  on  Count  Zachdarni,  in  "  Sartor  Resartus." 
f  Sir  Arthur  Helps.    "Animals  and  their  Masters,''  p.  67. 


THE  ROBIN. 


159 


few  lines  of  Milton  on  the  Creation.  The  only  example  of  a 
proper  manner  of  contribution  to  natural  history  is  in  White's 
Letters  from  Selborne.  You  know  I  have  always  spoken  of 
Bewick  as  pre-eminently  a  vulgar  or  boorish  person,  though 
of  splendid  honour  and  genius  ;  his  vulgarity  shows  in  noth- 
ing so  much  as  in  the  poverty  of  the  details  he  has  collected, 
with  the  best  intentions,  and  the  shrewdest  sense,  for  English 
ornithology.  His  imagination  is  not  cultivated  enough  to 
enable  him  to  choose,  or  arrange. 

4.  Nor  can  much  more  be  said  for  the  observations  of  mod- 
ern science.  It  is  vulgar  in  a  far  worse  way,  by  its  arrogance 
and  materialism.  In  general,  the  scientific  natural  history  of 
a  bird  consists  of  four  articles, — first,  the  name  and  estate  of 
the  gentleman  w7hose  gamekeeper  shot  the  last  that  was  seen 
in  England ;  secondly,  two  or  three  stories  of  doubtful 
origin,  printed  in  every  book  on  the  subject  of  birds  for  the 
last  fifty  years  ;  thirdly,  an  account  of  the  feathers,  from  the 
comb  to  the  rump,  with  enumeration  of  the  colours  which  are 
never  more  to  be  seen  on  the  living  bird  by  English  eyes ; 
and,  lastly,  a  discussion  of  the  reasons  why  none  of  the 
twelve  names  which  former  naturalists  have  given  to  the  bird 
are  of  any  further  use,  and  why  the  present  author  has  given 
it  a  thirteenth,  which  is  to  be  universally,  and  to  the  end  of 
time,  accepted. 

5.  You  may  fancy  this  is  caricature  ;  but  the  abyss  of  con- 
fusion produced  by  modern  science  in  nomenclature,  and  the 
utter  void  of  the  abyss  when  you  plunge  into  it  after  any  one 
useful  fact,  surpass  all  caricature.  I  have  in  my  hand  thirteen 
plates  of  thirteen  species  of  eagles ;  eagles  all,  or  hawks  all, 
or  falcons  all — whichever  name  you  choose  for  the  great  race 
of  the  hook-headed  birds  of  prey — some  so  like  that  you  can't 
tell  the  one  from  the  other,  at  the  distance  at  which  I  show 
them  to  you,  all  absolutely  alike  in  their  eagle  or  falcon 
character,  having,  every  one,  the  falx  for  its  beak,  and  every 
one,  flesh  for  its  prey.  Do  you  suppose  the  unhappy  student 
is  to  be  allowed  to  call  them  all  eagles,  or  all  falcons,  to  begin 
with,  as  would  be  the  first  condition  of  a  wise  nomenclature, 
establishing  resemblance  by  specific  name,  before  marking 


100 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


variation  by  individual  name  ?  No  such  luck.  I  hold  you  up 
the  plates  of  the  thirteen  birds  one  by  one,  and  read  you 
their  names  off  the  back  : — 

The  first  is  an  Aquila. 

The  second,  a  Halisetus. 

The  third,  a  Milvus. 

The  fourth,.  a  Pandion. 

The  fifth,  an  Astur. 

The  sixth,  a  Falco. 

The  seventh,  a  Pernis. 

The  eighth,  a  Circus. 

The  ninth,  a  Buteo. 

The  tenth,  an  Archibuteo. 

The  eleventh,        an  Accipiter. 

The  twelfth,  an  Erythropus. 

And  the  thirteenth,  a  Tinnunculus. 
There's  a  nice  little  lesson  to  entertain  a  parish  schoolboy 
with,  beginning  his  natural  history  of  birds  ! 

6.  There  are  not  so  many  varieties  of  robin  as  of  hawk,  but 
the  scientific  classifiers  are  not  to  be  beaten.  If  they  cannot 
find  a  number  of  similar  birds  to  give  different  names  to,  they 
will  give  two  names  to  the  same  one.  Here  are  two  pictures 
of  your  own  redbreast,  out  of  the  two  best  modern  works  on 
ornithology.  In  one,  it  is  called  "  Motacilla  rubecula;"  in 
the  other,    Eubecula  familiaris." 

7.  It  is  indeed  one  of  the  most  serious,  as  one  of  the  most 
absurd,  weaknesses,  of  modern  naturalists  to  imagine  that  any 
presently  invented  nomenclature  can  stand,  even  were  it 
adopted  by  the  consent  of  nations,  instead  of  the  conceit  of 
individuals.  It  will  take  fifty  years'  digestion  before  the  re- 
cently ascertained  elements  of  natural  science  can  permit  the 
arrangement  of  species  in  any  permanently  (even  over  & 
limited  period)  nameable  order  ;  nor  then,  unless  a  great  man 
is  born  to  perceive  and  exhibit  such  order.  In  the  meantime, 
the  simplest  and  most  descriptive  nomenclature  is  the  best. 
Every  one  of  these  birds,  for  instance,  might  be  called  falco 
in  Latin,  hawk  in  English,  some  word  being  added  to  dis- 
tinguish the  genus,  which  should  describe  its  principal  aspect 


THE  ROBUST. 


161 


or  habit.  Falco  montium,  Mountain  Hawk  ;  Falco  silvarum, 
Wood  Hawk  ;  Falco  procellarum,  Sea  Hawk  ;  and  the  like. 
Then,  one  descriptive  epithet  would  mark  species.  Falco 
montium,  aureus,  Golden  Eagle  ;  Falco  silvarum,  apivorus, 
Honey  Buzzard  ;  and  so  on  ;  and  the  naturalists  of  Vienna, 
Paris,  and  London  should  confirm  the  names  of  known  creat- 
ures, in  conclave,  once  every  half  century,  and  let  them  so 
stand  for  the  next  fifty  years. 

8.  In  the  meantime,  you  yourselves,  or,  to  speak  more 
generally,  the  young  rising  scholars  of  England,— all  of  you 
who  care  for  life  as  well  as  literature,  and  for  spirit, — even 
the  poor  souls  of  birds, — as  well  as  lettering  of  their  classes 
in  books, — you,  with  all  care,  should  cherish  the  old  Saxon- 
English  and  Norman-French  names  of  birds,  and  ascertain 
them  with  the  most  affectionate  research — never  despising 
even  the  rudest  or  most  provincial  forms  :  all  of  them  will, 
some  day  or  other,  give  you  clue  to  historical  points  of  in- 
terest. Take,  for  example,  the  common  English  name  of  this 
low-flying  falcon,  the  most  tameable  and  affectionate  of  his 
tribe,  and  therefore,  I  suppose,  fastest  vanishing  from  field 
and  wood,  the  buzzard.  The  name  comes  from  the  Latin 
"buteo,"  still  retained  by  the  ornithologists;  but,  in  its 
original  form,  valueless,  to  you.  But  when  you  get  it  com- 
fortably corrupted  into  Provencal  "  Busac,"  (whence  gradually 
the  French  busard,  and  our  buzzard,)  you  get  from  it  the  de- 
lightful compound  "  busacador,"  "  adorer  of  buzzards" — 
meaning,  generally,  a  sporting  person  ;  and  then  you  have 
Dante's  Bertrand  de  Born,  the  first  troubadour  of  war,  bear- 
ing witness  to  you  how  the  love  of  mere  hunting  and  falconry 
was  already,  in  his  day,  degrading  the  military  classes,  and,  so 
far  from  being  a  necessary  adjunct  of  the  noble  disposition 
of  lover  or  soldier,  was,  even  to  contempt,  showing  itself 
separate  from  both. 

"  Le  ric  home,  cassador, 
M'enneion,  e  l  buzacador. 
Parian  de  volada,  d'austor, 
Ne  jamais  d'armas,  ni  d'amor." 


162 


LOVE'S  ME1NTE. 


The  rich  man,  the  chaser, 

Tires  me  to  death ;  and  the  adorer  of  buzzards. 
They  talk  of  covey  and  hawk, 
And  never  of  arms,  nor  of  love. 

"  Cassador,"  of  course,  afterwards  becomes  "  chasseur,"  and 
"austor"  "vautour."  But  after  you  have  read  this,  and  fa 
initialized  your  ear  with  the  old  word,  how  differently  Milton's 
phrase  will  ring  to  you, — "Those  who  thought  no  better  of 
the  Living  God  than  of  a  buzzard  idol," — and  how  literal  it 
becomes,  when  we  think  of  the  actual  difference  between  a 
member  of  Parliament  in  Milton's  time,  and  the  Busacador 
of  to-day  ; — and  all  this  freshness  and  value  in  the  reading, 
observe,  come  of  your  keeping  the  word  which  great  men  have 
used  for  the  bird,  instead  of  letting  the  anatomists  blunder 
out  a  new  one  from  their  Latin  dictionaries. 

9.  There  are  not  so  many  nameable  varieties,  I  just  now  said, 
of  robin  as  of  falcon  ;  but  this  is  somewhat  inaccurately  stated. 
Those  thirteen  birds  represented  a  very  large  proportion  of  the 
entire  group  of  the  birds  of  prey,  which  in  my  sevenfold  classi- 
fication I  recommended  you  to  call  universally,  "  hawks."  The 
robin  is  only  one  of  the  far  greater  multitude  of  small  birds 
which  live  almost  indiscriminately  on  grain  or  insects,  and 
which  I  recommended  you  to  call  generally  "  sparrows  ;  "  but 
of  the  robin  itself,  there  are  two  important  European  varieties 
— one  red-breasted,  and  the  other  blue-breasted. 

10.  You  probably,  some  of  you,  never  heard  of  the  blue- 
breast  ;  very  few,  certainly,  have  seen  one  alive,  and,  if  alive, 
certainly  not  wild  in  England. 

Here  is  a  picture  of  it,  daintily  done,*  and  you  can  see  the 
pretty  blue  shield  on  its  breast,  perhaps,  at  this  distance.  Vain 
shield,  if  ever  the  fair  little  thing  is  wretched  enough  to  set 
foot  on  English  ground !  I  find  the  last  that  was  seen  was 
shot  at  Margate  so  long  ago  as  1842, — and  there  seems  to  be 
no  official  record  of  any  visit  before  that,  since  Mr.  Thomas 
Embledon  shot  one  on  Newcastle  town  moor  in  1816.  But 
this  rarity  of  visit  to  us  is  strange  ;  other  birds  have  no  such 

*  Mr.  Gould's,  in  his  "  Birds  of  Gr*a*  Britain,-'* 


THE  ROBIN". 


163 


clear  objection  to  being  shot,  and  really  seem  to  come  to  Eng- 
land expressly  for  the  purpose.  And  yet  this  blue-bird — (one 
can't  say  "  blue  robin  " — I  think  we  shall  have  to  call  him 
"bluet,"  like  the  cornflower) — stays  in  Sweden,  where  it  sings 
so  sweetly  that  it  is  called  "a  hundred  tongues." 

11.  That,  then,  is  the  utmost  which  the  lords  of  land,  and 
masters  of  science,  do  for  us  in  their  watch  upon  our  feathered 
suppliants.  One  kills  them,  the  other  writes  classifying  epi- 
taphs. 

We  have  next  to  ask  what  the  poets,  painters,  and  monks 
have  done. 

The  poets — among  whom  I  affectionately  and  reverently 
class  the  sweet  singers  of  the  nursery,  mothers  and  nurses- 
have  done  much  ;  very  nearly  all  that  I  care  for  your  thinking 
of.  The  painters  and  monks,  the  one  being  so  greatly  under 
the  influence  of  the  other,  we  may  for  the  present  class  to- 
gether; and  may  almost  sum  their  contributions  to  ornithology 
in  saying  that  they  have  plucked  the  wings  from  birds,  to 
make  angels  of  men,  and  the  claws  from  birds,  to  make  devils 
of  men. 

If  you  were  to  take  away  from  religious  art  these  two  great 
helps  of  its — I  must  say,  on  the  whole,  very  feeble — imagina- 
tion ;  if  you  were  to  take  from  it,  I  say,  the  power  of  putting 
wings  on  shoulders,  and  claws  on  fingers  and  toes,  how  won- 
derfully the  sphere  of  its  angelic  and  diabolic  characters  would 
be  contracted  !  Eeduced  only  to  the  sources  of  expression  in 
face  or  movements,  you  might  still  find  in  good  early  sculpt* 
ure  very  sufficient  devils  ;  but  the  best  angels  would  resolve 
themselves,  I  think,  into  little  more  than,  and  not  often  into 
so  much  as,  the  likenesses  of  pretty  women,  with  that  grave 
and  (I  do  not  say  it  ironically)  majestic  expression  which  they 
put  on,  when,  being  very  fond  of  their  husbands  and  children, 
they  seriously  think  either  the  one  or  the  other  have  misbe- 
haved themselves. 

12.  And  it  is  not  a  little  discouraging  for  me,  and  may  well 
make  you  doubtful  of  my  right  judgment  in  this  endeavour  to 
lead  you  into  closer  attention  to  the  bird,  with  its  wings  and 
claws  still  in  its  own  possession ;— it  is  discouraging,  I  say,  to 


164: 


LOVE  S  MEINIE. 


observe  that  the  beginning  of  such  more  faithfrD  d,nd  accurate 
observation  in  former  art,  is  exactly  coeval  with  the  commence- 
ment of  its  decline.  The  feverish  and  ungraceful  natural 
history  of  Paul,  called,  "  of  the  birds,"  Paolo  degli  Uccelli, 
produced,  indeed,  no  harmful  result  on  the  minds  of  his  con- 
temporaries ;  they  watched  in  him,  with  only  contemptuous 
admiration,  the  fantasy  of  zoological  instinct  which  filled  his 
house  with  painted  dogs,  cats,  and  birds,  because  he  was  too 
poor  to  fill  it  with  real  ones.  Their  judgment  of  this  morbidly 
naturalistic  art  was  conclusively  expressed  by  the  sentence  of 
Donatello,  when  going  one  morning  into  the  Old  Market,  to 
buy  fruit,  and  finding  the  animal  painter  uncovering  a  pict- 
ure, which  had  cost  him  months  of  care,  (curiously  symbolic 
in  its  subject,  the  infidelity  of  St.  Thomas,  of  the  investigatory 
fingering  of  the  natural  historian,)  "  Paul,  my  friend,"  said 
Donatello,  "  thou  art  uncovering  the  picture  just  when  thou 
shouldst  be  shutting  it  up." 

13.  No  harm,  therefore,  I  repeat,  but,  on  the  contrary,  some 
wholesome  stimulus  to  the  fancy  of  men  like  Luca  and  Dona- 
tello themselves,  came  of  the  grotesque  and  impertinent 
zoology  of  Uccello. 

But  the  fatallest  institutor  of  proud  modern  anatomical  and 
scientific  art,  and  of  all  that  has  polluted  the  dignity,  and 
darkened  the  charity,  of  the  greater  ages,  was  Antonio  Polla- 
juolo  of  Florence.  Antonio  (that  is  to  say)  the  Poulterer — so 
named  from  the  trade  of  his  grandfather,  and  with  just  so 
much  of  his  grandfather's  trade  left  in  his  own  disposition, 
that  being  set  by  Lorenzo  Ghiberti  to  complete  one  of  the 
ornamental  festoons  of  the  gates  of  the  Florentine  Baptistery, 
there,  (says  Vasari)  "Antonio  produced  a  quail,  which  may 
still  be  seen,  and  is  so  beautiful,  nay,  so  perfect,  that  it  wants 
nothing  but  the  power  of  flight." 

14.  Here,  the  morbid  tendency  was  as  attractive  as  it  was 
subtle.  Ghiberti  himself  fell  under  the  influence  of  it ; 
allowed  the  borders  of  his  gates,  with  their  fluttering  birds 
and  bossy  fruits,  to  dispute  the  spectators'  favour  with  the  re- 
ligious subjects  they  enclosed  ;  and,  from  that  day  forward, 
minuteness  and  muscularity  were,  with  curious  harmony  of 


THE  ROBIN. 


165 


evil,  delighted  in  together  ;  and  the  lancet  and  the  microscope, 
in  the  hands  of  fools,  were  supposed  to  be  complete  substi- 
tutes for  imagination  in  the  souls  of  wise  men  :  so  that  even 
the  best  artists  are  gradually  compelled,  or  beguiled,  into 
compliance  with  the  curiosity  of  their  day  ;  and  Francia,  in  the 
city  of  Bologna,  is  held  to  be  a  "  kind  of  god,  more  particu- 
larly "  (again  I  quote  Vasari)  4  c  after  he  had  painted  a  set  of 
caparisons  for  the  Duke  of  Urbino,  on  which  he  depicted  a 
great  forest  all  on  fire,  and  whence  there  rushes  forth  an  im- 
mense number  of  every  kind  of  animal,  with  several  human 
figures.  This  terrific,  yet  truly  beautiful  representation,  was 
all  the  more  highly  esteemed  for  the  time  that  had  been  ex- 
pended on  it  in  the  plumage  of  the  birds,  and  other  minutia? 
in  the  delineation  of  the  different  animals,  and  in  the  diversity 
of  the  branches  and  leaves  of  the  various  trees  seen  therein  ; " 
and  thenceforward  the  catastrophe  is  direct,  to  the  ornitho- 
logical museums  which  Breughel  painted  for  gardens  of  Eden, 
and  to  the  still  life  and  dead  game  of  Dutch  celebrities. 

15.  And  yet  I  am  going  to  invite  you  to-day  to  examine, 
down  to  almost  microscopic  detail,  the  aspect  of  a  small  bird, 
and  to  invite  you  to  do  this,  as  a  most  expedient  and  sure  step 
in  your  study  of  the  greatest  art. 

But  the  difference  in  our  motive  of  examination  will  entirely 
alter  the  result.  To  paint  birds  that  we  may  show  how  mi- 
nutely we  can  paint,  is  among  the  most  contemptible  occupa- 
tions of  art.  To  paint  them,  that  we  may  show  how  beautiful 
they  are,  is  not  indeed  one  of  its  highest,  but  quite  one  of  its 
pleasantest  and  most  useful ;  it  is  a  skill  within  the  reach  of 
every  student  of  average  capacity,  and  which,  so  far  as  ac- 
quired, will  assuredly  both  make  their  hearts  kinder,  and 
their  lives  happier. 

Without  further  preamble,  I  will  ask  you  to  look  to-day, 
more  carefully  than  usual,  at  your  well-known  favourite,  and 
to  think  about  him  with  some  precision. 

16.  And  first,  "Where  does  he  come  from  ?  I  stated  that  my 
lectures  were  to  be  on  English  and  Greek  birds  ;  but  we  are 
apt  to  fancy  the  robin  all  our  own.  How  exclusively,  do  you 
suppose,  he  really  belongs  to  us  ?    You  would  think  this  was 


166 


LOVE'S  MEIJSiIE. 


the  first  point  to  be  settled  in  any  book  about  him.  I  have 
hunted  all  my  books  through,  and  can't  tell  you  how  much 
he  is  our  own,  or  how  far  he  is  a  traveller. 

And,  indeed,  are  not  all  our  ideas  obscure  about  migration 
itself  ?  You  are  broadly  told  that  a  bird  travels,  and  how 
wonderful  it  is  that  it  finds  its  way  ;  but  you  are  scarcely  ever 
told,  or  led  to  think,  what  it  really  travels  for — whether  for 
food,  for  warmth,  or  for  seclusion — and  how  the  travelling  is 
connected  with  its  fixed  home.  Birds  have  not  their  town 
and  country  houses, — their  villas  in  Italy,  and  shooting  boxes 
in  Scotland.  The  country  in  which  they  build  their  nests  is 
their  proper  home, — the  country,  that  is  to  say,  in  which  they 
pass  the  spring  and  summer.  Then  they  go  south  in  tbe 
winter,  for  food  and  warmth  ;  but  in  what  lines,  and  by  what 
stages  ?  The  general  definition  of  a  migrant  in  this  hemi- 
sphere is  a  bird  that  goes  north  to  build  its  nest,  and  south 
for  the  winter ;  but,  then,  the  one  essential  point  to  know 
about  it  is  the  breadth  and  latitude  of  the  zone  it  properly  in- 
habits,— that  is  to  say,  in  which  it  builds  its  nest  ;  next,  its 
habit  of  life,  and  extent  and  line  of  southing  in  the  winter  ; 
and,  finally,  its  manner  of  travelling. 

17.  Now,  here  is  this  entirely  familiar  bird,  the  robin. 
Quite  the  first  thing  that  strikes  me  about  it,  looking  at  it  as 
a  painter,  is  the  small  effect  it  seems  to  have  had  on  the  minds 
of  the  southern  nations.  I  trace  nothing  of  it  definitely,  either 
in  the  art  or  literature  of  Greece  or  Italy.  I  find,  even,  no 
definite  name  for  it ;  you  don't  know  if  Lesbia's  "passer  "  had 
a  red  breast,  or  a  blue,  or  a  brown.  And  yet  Mr.  Gould  says 
it  is  abundant  in  all  parts  of  Europe,  in  all  the  islands  of  the 
Mediterranean,  and  in  Madeira  and  the  Azores.  And  then  he 
says— (now  notice  the  puzzle  of  this), — "  In  many  parts  of  the 
Continent  it  is  a  migrant,  and,  contrary  to  what  obtains  with 
us,  is  there  treated  as  a  vagrant,  for  there  is  scarcely  a  coun- 
try across  the  water  in  which  it  is  not  shot  down  and  eaten.  " 

"In  many  parts  of  the  Continent  it  is  a  migrant. "  In  what 
parts — how  far — in  what  manner  ? 

18.  In  none  of  the  old  natural  history  books  can  I  find  any 
account  of  the  robin  as  a  traveller,  but  there  is,  for  once,  some 


THE  ROBIK 


167 


sufficient  reason  for  their  reticence.  He  has  a  curious  fancy 
in  his  manner  of  travelling.  Of  all  birds,  you  would  think  he 
was  likely  to  do  it  in  the  cheerfulest  way,  and  he  does  it  in  the 
saddest.  Do  you  chance  to  have  read,  in  the  Life  of  Charles 
Dickens,  how  fond  he  was  of  taking  long  walks  in  the  night 
and  alone  ?  The  robin,  en  voyage,  is  the  Charles  Dickens  of 
birds.  He  always  travels  in  the  night,  and  alone  ;  rests,  in 
the  day,  wherever  day  chances  to  find  him;  sings  a  little,  and 
pretends  he  hasn't  been  anywhere.  He  goes  as  far,  in  the 
winter,  as  the  north-west  of  Africa  ;  and  in  Lombardy,  arrives 
from  the  south  early  in  March ;  but  does  not  stay  long,  going 
on  into  the  Alps,  where  he  prefers  wooded  and  wild  districts. 
So,  at  least,  says  my  Lombard  informant. 

I  do  not  find  him  named  in  the  list  of  Cretan  birds  ;  but 
even  if  often  seen,  his  dim  red  breast  was  little  likely  to  make 
much  impression  on  the  Greeks,  who  knew  the  flamingo,  and 
had  made  it,  under  the  name  of  Phoenix  or  Phcenicopterus, 
the  centre  of  their  myths  of  scarlet  birds.  They  broadly  em- 
braced the  general  aspect  of  the  smaller  and  more  obscure 
species,  under  the  term  $ovOos,  which,  as  I  understand  their 
use  of  it,  exactly  implies  the  indescribable  silky  brown,  the 
groundwork  of  all  other  colour  in  so  many  small  birds,  which 
is  indistinct  among  green  leaves,  and  absolutely  identifies  it- 
self with  dead  ones,  or  writh  mossy  stems. 

19.  I  think  I  show  it  you  more  accurately  in  the  robin's 
back  than  I  could  in  any  other  bird;  its  mode  of  transition 
into  more  brilliant  colour  is,  in  him,  elementarily  simple  ;  and 
although  there  is  nothing,  or  rather  because  there  is  nothing, 
in  his  plumage,  of  interest  like  that  of  tropical  birds,  or  even 
of  our  own  game-birds,  I  think  it  will  be  desirable  for  you  to 
learn  first  from  the  breast  of  the  robin  what  a  feather  is. 
Once  knowing  that,  thoroughly,  we  can  further  learn  from  the 
swallow  what  a  wing  is ;  from  the  chough  what  a  beak  is  ;  and 
from  the  falcon  what  a  claw  is. 

I  must  take  care,  however,  in  neither  of  these  last  two  par- 
ticulars, to  do  injustice  to  our  little  English  friend  here  ;  and 
before  we  come  to  his  feathers,  must  ask  you  to  look  at  hia 
bill  and  his  feet. 


168 


LOVE'S  METWIE. 


20.  I  do  not  think  it  is  distinctly  enough  felt  by  us  that  the 
beak  of  a  bird  is  not  only  its  mouth,  but  its  hand,  or  rather 
its  two  hands.  For,  as  its  arms  and  hands  are  turned  into 
wings,  all  it  has  to  depend  upon,  in  economical  and  practical 
life,  is  its  beak.  The  beak,  therefore,  is  at  once  its  sword,  its 
carpenter's  tool-box,  and  its  dressing-case  ;  partly  also  its 
musical  instrument ;  all  this  besides  its  function  of  seizing 
and  preparing  the  food,  in  which  functions  alone  it  has  to  be 
a  trap,  carving-knife,  and  teeth,  all  in  one. 

21.  It  is  this  need  of  the  beak's  being  a  mechanical  tool 
w^hich  chiefly  regulates  the  form  of  a  bird's  face  as  opposed  to 
a  four-footed  animal's.  If  the  question  of  food  wrere  the  only 
one,  wre  might  wonder  why  there  were  not  more  four-footed 
creatures  living  on  seeds  than  there  are  ;  or  why  those  that 
do — field-mice  and  the  like — have  not  beaks  instead  of  teeth. 
But  the  fact  is  that  a  bird's  beak  is  by  no  means  a  perfect  eat- 
ing or  food-seizing  instrument.  A  squirrel  is  far  more  dexter- 
ous with  a  nut  than  a  cockatoo  ;  and  a  dog  manages  a  bone 
incomparably  better  than  an  eagle.  But  the  beak  has  to  do 
so  much  more  !  Pruning  feathers,  building  nests,  and  the  in- 
cessant discipline  in  military  arts,  are  all  to  be  thought  of,  as 
much  as  feeding. 

Soldiership,  especially,  is  a  much  more  imperious  necessity 
among  birds  than  quadrupeds.  Neither  lions  nor  wolves  ha- 
bitually use  claws  or  teeth  in  contest  with  their  own  species  ; 
but  birds,  for  their  partners,  their  nests,  their  hunting- 
grounds,  and  their  personal  dignity,  are  nearly  always  in  con- 
tention ;  their  courage  is  unequalled  by  that  of  any  other  race 
of  animals  capable  of  comprehending  danger  ;  and  their  per- 
tinacity aud  endurance  have,  in  all  ages,  made  them  an  example 
to  the  brave,  and  an  amusement  to  the  base,  among  mankind. 

22.  Nevertheless,  since  as  sword,  as  trowel,  or  as  pocket- 
comb,  the  beak  of  the  bird  has  to  be  pointed,  the  collection  oi 
seeds  may  be  conveniently  entrusted  to  this  otherwise  pene- 
trative instrument,  and  such  food  as  can  only  be  obtained  by 
probing  crevices,  splitting  open  fissures,  or  neatly  and  mi- 
nutely picking  things  hp,  is  allotted,  pre-eminently,  to  the  bird 
species. 


THE  ROBIN, 


1G9 


The  food  of  the  robin,  as  you  know,  is  very  miscellaneous. 
Linnaeus  says  of  the  Swedish  one,  that  it  is  "delectatus 
euonymi  baccis," — "  delighted  with  dogwood  berries," — the 
dogwood  growing  abundantly  in  Sweden,  as  once  in  Forfar- 
shire, where  it  grew,  though  only  a  bush  usually  in  the  south, 
with  trunks  a  foot  or  eighteen  inches  in  diameter,  and  the 
tree  thirty  feet  high.  But  the  Swedish  robin's  taste  for  its 
berries  is  to  be  noted  by  you,  because,  first,  the  dogwood 
berry  is  commonly  said  to  be  so  bitter  that  it  is  not  eaten  by 
birds  (Loudon,  "Arboretum/'  ii.,  497,  1.)  ;  and,  secondly,  be- 
cause it  is  a  pretty  coincidence  that  this  most  familiar  of 
household  birds  should  feed  fondly  from  the  tree  which  gives 
the  housewife  her  spindle, — the  proper  name  of  the  dogwood 
in  English,  French,  and  German  being  alike  "  Spindle-tree."  It 
feeds,  however,  with  us,  certainly,  most  on  worms  and  insects. 
I  am  not  sure  how  far  the  following  account  of  its  mode  of 
dressing  its  dinners  may  depend  on  :  I  take  it  from  an  old 
book  on  Natural  History,  but  find  it,  more  or  less,  confirmed 
by  others  :  It  takes  a  worm  by  one  extremity  in  its  beak,  and 
beats  it  on  the  ground  till  the  inner  part  comes  away.  Then 
seizing  it  in  a  similar  manner  by  the  other  end,  it  entirely 
cleanses  the  outer  part,  which  alone  it  eats." 

One's  first  impression  is  that  this  must  be  a  singularly  un- 
pleasant operation  for  the  worm,  however  fastidiously  delicate 
and  exemplary  in  the  robin.  But  I  suppose  the  real  meaning- 
is,  that  as  a  worm  lives  by  passing  earth  through  its  body,  the 
robin  merely  compels  it  to  quit  this — not  ill-gotten,  indeed, 
but  now  quite  unnecessary — wealth.  We  human  creatures, 
who  have  lived  the  lives  of  worms,  collecting  dust,  are  served 
by  Death  in  exactly  the  same  manner. 

23.  You  will  find  that  the  robin's  beak,  then,  is  a  very  pret- 
tily representative  one  of  general  bird  power.  As  a  weapon, 
it  is  very  formidable  indeed  ;  he  can  kill  an  adversary  of  his 
own  kind  with  one  blow  of  it  in  the  throat ;  and  is  so  pugna- 
cious, "valde  pugnax,"  says  Linnaeus,  "ut  non  una  arbor 
duos  capiat  erithacos," — "no  single  tree  can  hold  two  cock- 
robins  ; "  and  for  precision  of  seizure,  the  little  flat  hook  at 
the  end  of  the  upper  mandible  is  one  of  the  most  delicately 


170 


LOVE'b  MEINIE. 


formed  points  of  forceps  which  you  can  find  among  the 
grain  eaters.  But  I  pass  to  one  of  his  more  special  perfec- 
tions. 

24  He  is  very  notable  in  the  exquisite  silence  and  precis- 
ion of  his  movements,  as  opposed  to  birds  who  either  creak 
in  flying,  or  waddle  in  walking.  "  Always  quiet,"  says  Gould, 
"for  the  silkiness  of  his  plumage  renders  his  movements 
noiseless,  and  the  rustling  of  his  wings  is  never  heard,  any 
more  than  his  tread  on  earth,  over  which  he  bounds  with 
amazing  sprightliness."  You  know  how  much  importance  I 
have  always  given,  among  the  fine  arts,  to  good  dancing.  If 
you  think  of  it,  you  will,  find  one  of  the  robin's  very  chief  in- 
gratiatory  faculties  is  his  dainty  and  delicate  movement, — his 
footing  it  featly  here  and  there.  Whatever  prettiness  there 
may  be  in  his  red  breast,  at  his  brightest  he  can  always  be 
outshone  by  a  brickbat.  But  if  he  is  rationally  proud  of  any- 
thing about  him,  I  should  think  a  robin  must  be  proud  of  his 
legs.  Hundreds  of  birds  have  longer  and  more  imposing  ones 
— but  for  real  neatness,  finish,  and  precision  of  action,  com- 
mend me  to  his  fine  little  ankles,  and  fine  little  feet ;  this  long 
stilted  process,  as  you  know,  corresponding  to  our  ankle-bone. 
Commend  me,  I  say,  to  the  robin  for  use  of  his  ankles — he  is, 
of  all  birds,  the  pre-eminent  and  characteristic  Hopper  ;  none 
other  so  light,  so  pert,  or  so  swift. 

25.  We  must  not,  however,  give  too  much  credit  to  his  legs 
in  this  matter.  A  robin's  hop  is  half  a  flight ;  he  hops,  very 
essentially,  with  wings  and  tail,  as  well  as  with  his  feet,  and 
the  exquisitely  rapid  opening  and  quivering  of  the  tail-feathers 
certainly  give  half  the  force  to  his  leap.  It  is  in  this  action 
that  he  is  put  among  the  motacillse,  or  wagtails  ;  but  the  orni- 
thologists have  no  real  business  to  put  him  among  them.  The 
swing  of  the  long  tail-feathers  in  the  true  wagtail  is  entirely 
consequent  on  its  motion,  not  impulsive  of  it — the  tremulous 
shake  is  after  alighting.  But  the  robin  leaps  with  wing,  tail, 
and  foot,  all  in  time,  and  all  helping  each  other.  Leaps,  I 
say  ;  and  you  check  at  the  word  ;  and  ought  to  check  :  you 
look  at  a  bird  hopping,  and  the  motion  is  so  much  a  matter 
of  course,  you  never  think  how  it  is  done.    But  do  you  think 


THE  ROBIN. 


171 


you  would  find  it  easy  to  hop  like  a  robin  if  you  had  two — all 
but  wooden — legs,  like  this  ? 

26.  I  have  looked  wholly  in  vain  through  all  my  books  on 
birds,  to  find  some  account  of  the  muscles  it  uses  in  hopping, 
and  of  the  part  of  the  toes  with  which  the  spring  is  given.  I 
must  leave  you  to  find  out  that  for  yourselves  ;  it  is  a  little  bit 
of  anatomy  which  I  think  it  highly  desirable  for  you  to  know, 
but  which  it  is  not  my  business  to  teach  you.  Only  observe, 
this  is  the  point  to  be  made  out.  You  leap  yourselves,  with 
the  toe  and  ball  of  the  foot ;  but,  in  that  power  of  leaping, 
you  lose  the  faculty  of  grasp  ;  on  the  contrary,  with  your 
hands,  you  grasp  as  a  bird  with  its  feet.  But  you  cannot  hop 
on  your  hands.  A  cat,  a  leopard,  and  a  monkey,  leap  or  grasp 
with  equal  ease  ;  but  the  action  of  their  paws  in  leaping  is,  I 
imagine,  from  the  fleshy  ball  of  the  foot ;  while  in  the  bird, 
characteristically  ya[xij/C)vv^  this  fleshy  ball  is  reduced  to  a  boss 
or  series  of  bosses,  and  the  nails  are  elongated  into  sickles  or 
horns  ;  nor  does  the  springing  power  seem  to  depend  on  the 
development  of  the  bosses.  They  are  far  more  developed  in 
an  eagle  than  a  robin  ;  but  you  know  how  unpardonably  and 
preposterously  awkward  an  eagle  is  when  he  hops.  When 
they  are  most  of  all  developed,  the  bird  walks,  runs,  and  digs 
well,  but  leaps  badly. 

27.  I  have  no  time  to  speak  of  the  various  forms  of  the  ankle 
itself,  or  of  the  scales  of  armour,  more  apparent  than  real,  by 
which  the  foot  and  ankle  are  protected.  The  use  of  this 
lecture  is  not  either  to  describe  or  to  exhibit  these  varieties  to 
you,  but  so  to  awaken  your  attention  to  the  real  points  of 
character,  that,  when  you  have  a  bird's  foot  to  draw,  you  may 
do  so  with  intelligence  and  pleasure,  knowing  whether  you 
want  to  express  force,  grasp,  or  firm  ground  pressure,  or  dex- 
terity and  tact  in  motion.  And  as  the  actions  of  the  foot  and 
the  hand  in  man  are  made  by  every  great  painter  perfectly 
expressive  of  the  character  of  mind,  so  the  expressions  of 
rapacity,  cruelty,  or  force  of  seizure,  in  the  harpy,  the  gryphon, 
and  the  hooked  and  clawed  evil  spirits  of  early  religious 
art,  can  only  be  felt  by  extreme  attention  to  the  original 
form. 


172 


LOVE'S  MEIN1E. 


28.  And  now  I  return  to  our  main  question,  for  the 
robin's  breast  to  answer,  "What  is  a  feather?"  You  know 
something  about  it  already  ;  that  it  is  composed  of  a  quill, 
with  its  lateral  filaments,  terminating  generally,  more  or  less, 
in  a  point ;  that  these  extremities  of  the  quills,  lying  over 
each  other  like  the  tiles  of  a  house,  allow  the  wind  and 
rain  to  pass  over  them  with  the  least  possible  resistance, 
and  form  a  protection  alike  from  the  heat  and  the  cold  ; 
which,  in  structure  much  resembling  the  scale-armour  assumed 
by  man  for  very  different  objects,  is,  in  fact,  intermediate, 
exactly,  between  the  fur  of  beasts  and  the  scales  of  fishes  ; 
having  the  minute  division  of  the  one,  and  the  armour- 
like symmetry  and  succession  of  the  other. 

29.  Not  merely  symmetry,  observe,  but  extreme  flatness. 
Feathers  are  smoothed  down,  as  a  field  of  corn  by  wind  with 
rain  ;  only  the  swathes  laid  in  beautiful  order.  They  are  fur, 
so  structurally  placed  as  to  imply,  and  submit  to,  the  perpetu- 
ally swift  forward  motion.  In  fact,  I  have  no  doubt  the  Dar- 
winian theory  on  the  subject  is  that  the  feathers  of  birds  once 
stuck  up  all  erect,  like  the  bristles  of  a  brush,  and  have  only 
been  blown  flat  by  continual  flying. 

Nay,  we  might  even  sufficiently  represent  the  general  man- 
ner of  conclusion  in  the  Darwinian  system  by  the  statement 
that  if  you  fasten  a  hair-brush  to  a  mill-wheel,  wTith  the  handle 
forward,  so  as  to  develop  itself  into  a  neck  by  moving  always 
in  the  same  direction,  and  within  continual  hearing  of  a  steam- 
whistle,  after  a  certain  number  of  revolutions  the  hair-brush 
will  fall  in  love  with  the  whistle  ;  they  will  marry,  lay  an  egg, 
and  the  produce  will  be  a  nightingale. 

.  30.  Whether,  however,  a  hog's  bristle  can  turn  into  a 
feather  or  not,  it  is  vital  that  you  should  know  the  present 
difference  between  them. 

The  scientific  people  will  tell  you  that  a  feather  is  composed 
of  three  parts — the  down,  the  laminae,  and  the  shaft. 

But  the  common-sense  method  of  stating  the  matter  is  that 
a  feather  is  composed  of  two  parts,  a  shaft  with  lateral  fila- 
ments. For  the  greater  part  of  the  shaft's  length,  these  fila- 
ments are  strong  and  nearly  straight,  forming,  by  their  attach- 


THE  ROBIN. 


173 


ment,  a  finely  warped  sail,  like  that  of  a  windmill.  But 
towards  the  root  of  the  feather  they  suddenly  become  weak, 
and  confusedly  flexible,  and  form  the  close  down  which  im- 
mediately protects  the  bird's  body. 

To  show  you  the  typical  arrangement  of  these  parts,  I 
choose,  as  I  have  said,  the  robin  ;  because,  both  in  his  power 
of  flying,  and  in  his  colour,  he  is  a  moderate  and  balanced 
bird  ; — not  turned  into  nothing  but  wings,  like  a  swallow,  or 
nothing  but  neck  and  tail,  like  a  peacock.  And  first  for  his 
flying  power.  There  is  one  of  the  long  feathers  of  robin's 
wing,  and  here  (Fig.  1)  the  analysis  of  its  form. 


B 

[Fig.  1. — Twice  the  size  of  reality.] 


31.  First,  in  pure  outline  (a),  seen  from  above,  it  is  very 
nearly  a  long  oval,  but  with  this  peculiarity,  that  it  has,  as  it 
were,  projecting  shoulders  at  a  1  and  a  2.  I  merely  desire 
you  to  observe  this,  in  passing,  because  one  usually  thinks  of 
the  contour  as  sweeping  unbroken  from  the  root  to  the  point. 
I  have  not  time  to-day  to  enter  on  any  discussion  of  the  reason 
for  it,  which  will  appear  when  we  examine  the  placing  of  the 
wing-feathers  for  their  stroke. 

Now,  I  hope  you  are  getting  accustomed  to  the  general 
method  in  which  I  give  you  the  analysis  of  all  forms — leaf,  or 
feather,  or  shell,  or  limb.  First,  the  plan  ;  then  the  pro- 
file ;  then  the  cross-section. 

I  take  next,  the  profile  of  my  feather  (b,  Fig.  1),  and  find 


174 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


that  it  is  twisted  as  the  sail  of  a  windmill  is,  but  more  dis* 
tinctly,  so  that  you  can  alwrays  see  the  upper  surface  of  the 
feather  at  its  root,  and  the  under  at  its  end.  Every  primary 
wing-feather,  in  the  fine  flyers,  is  thus  twisted  ;  and  is  best 
described  as  a  sail  striking  with  the  power  of  a  scymitar,  but 
with  the  flat  instead  of  the  edge. 

32.  Further,  you  remember  that  on  the  edges  of  the  broad 
side  of  feathers  you  find  always  a  series  of  undulations,  irreg- 
ularly sequent,  and  lapping  over  each  other  like  waves  on 
sand.  You  might  at  first  imagine  that  this  appearance  was 
owing  to  a  slight  ruffling  or  disorder  of  the  filaments  ;  but  it 


A 


fi 

Fig.  2. 


is  entirely  normal,  and,  I  doubt  not,  so  constructed,  in  order 
to  ensure  a  redundance  of  material  in  the  plume,  so  that  no 
accident  or  pressure  from  wind  may  leave  a  gap  anywhere. 
How  this  redundance  is  obtained  you  will  see  in  a  moment  by 
bending  any  feather  the  wrong  way.  Bend,  for  instance,  this 
plume,  b,  Fig.  2,  into  the  reversed  curve,  a,  Fig.  2  ;  then  all 
the  filaments  of  the  plume  become  perfectly  even,  and  there 
are  no  waves  at  the  edge.  But  let  the  plume  return  into  its 
proper  form,  b,  and  the  tissue  being  now  contracted  into  a 
smaller  space,  the  edge  waves  are  formed  in  it  instantly. 
Hitherto,  I  have  been  speaking  only  of  the  filaments  ar- 


THE  ROBW. 


175 


ranged  for  the  strength  and  continuity  of  the  energetic  plume  ; 
they  are  entirely  different  when  they  are  set  together  for  dec- 
oration instead  of  force.  After  the  feather  of  the  robin's 
wing  let  us  examine  one  from  his  breast. 

33.  I  said,  just  now,  he  might  be  at  once  outshone  by  a 
brickbat.  Indeed,  the  day  before  yesterday,  sleeping  at 
Lichfield,  and  seeing,  the  first  thing  when  I  woke  in  the 
morning,  (for  I  never  put  down  the  blinds  of  my  bedroom 
windows,)  the  not  uncommon  sight  in  an  English  country 
town  of  an  entire  house-front  of  very  neat,  and  very  flat,  and 
very  red  bricks,  with  very  exactly  squared  square  windows  in 
it ;  and  not  feeling  myself  in  anywise  gratified  or  improved 
by  the  spectacle,  I  was  thinking  how  in  this,  as  in  all  other 
good,  the  too  much  destroyed  all.  The  breadth  of  a  robin's 
breast  in  brick-red  is  delicious,  but  a  whole  house-front  of 
brick-red  as  vivid,  is  alarming.  And  yet  one  cannot  gener- 
alize even  that  trite  moral  with  any  safety — for  infinite  breadth 
of  green  is  delightful,  however  green  ;  and  of  sea  or  sky,  how- 
ever blue. 

You  must  note,  however,  that  the  robin's  charm  is  greatly 
helped  by  the  pretty  space  of  grey  plumage  which  separates 
the  red  from  the  brown  back,  and  sets  it  off  to  its  best  advan- 
tage. There  is  no  great  brilliancy  in  it,  even  so  relieved  ; 
only  the  finish  of  it  is  exquisite. 

34.  If  you  separate  a  single  feather,  you  will  find  it  more 
like  a  transparent  hollow  shell  than  a  feather  (so  delicately 
rounded  the  surface  of  it), — grey  at  the  root,  where  the  down 
is,—- tinged,  and  only  tinged,  with  red  at  the  part  that  over- 
laps and  is  visible  ;  so  that,  when  three  or  four  more  feathers 
have  overlapped  it  again,  all  together,  with  their  joined  red, 
are  just  enough  to  give  the  colour  determined  upon,  each  of 
them  contributing  a  tinge.  There  are  about  thirty  of  these 
glowing  filaments  on  each  side,  (the  whole  being  no  larger 
across  than  a  well-grown  currant,)  and  each  of  these  is  itself 
another  exquisite  feather,  with  central  quill  and  lateral  webs, 
whose  filaments  are  not  to  be  counted. 

The  extremity  of  these  breast  plumes  parts  slightly  into 
two,  as  you  see  in  the  peacock's,  and  many  other  such  decora* 


176 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


live  ones.  The  transition  from  the  entirely  leaf-like  shape  of 
the  active  plume,  with  its  oblique  point,  to  the  more  or  less 
symmetrical  dualism  of  the  decorative  plume,  corresponds 
with  the  change  from  the  pointed  green  leaf  to  the  dual,  or 
heart-shaped,  petal  of  many  flowers.  I  shall  return  to  this 
part  of  our  subject,  having  given  you,  I  believe,  enough  of 
detail  for  the  present. 

35.  I  have  said  nothing  to-day  of  the  mythology  of  the  bird, 
though  I  told  you  that  would  always  be,  for  us,  the  most  im- 
portant part  of  its  natural  history.  But  I  am  obliged,  some- 
times, to  take  what  we  immediately  want,  rather  than  what, 
ultimately,  wre  shall  need  chiefly.  In  the  second  place,  you 
probably,  most  of  you,  know  more  of  the  mythology  of  the 
robin  than  I  do,  for  the  stories  about  it  are  all  northern,  and  I 
know  scarcely  any  myths  but  the  Italian  and  Greek.  You  will 
find  under  the  name  "  Bobin,"  in  Miss  Yonge's  exhaustive  and 
admirable  "  History  of  Christian  Names,"  the  various  titles  of 
honour  and  endearment  connected  with  him,  and  with  the 
general  idea  of  redness, — from  the  bishop  called  "  Bright 
Bed  Fame,"  who  founded  the  first  great  Christian  church  on 
the  Rhine,  (I  am  afraid  of  your  thinking  I  mean  a  pun,  in 
connection  with  robins,  if  I  tell  you  the  locality  of  ifc,)  down 
through  the  Hoods,  and  Roys,  and  Grays,  to  Robin  Good- 
fellow,  and  Spenser's  "  Hobbinol,"  and  our  modern  "Hob," 
joining  on  to  the  "  goblin,"  which  comes  from  the  old  Greek 
Ko/?a,\os.  But  I  cannot  let  you  go  without  asking  you  to 
compare  the  English  and  French  feeling  about  small  birds, 
in  Chaucer's  time,  with  our  own  on  the  same  subject.  I  say 
English  and  French,  because  the  original  French  of  the  Ro- 
mance of  the  Rose  show7s  more  affection  for  birds  than  even 
Chaucer's  translation,  passionate  as  he  is,  always,  in  love  for 
any  one  of  his  little  winged  brothers  or  sisters.  Look,  how- 
ever, either  in  the  French  or  English,  at  the  description  of  the 
coming  of  the  God  of  Love,  leading  his  carol-dance,  in  the 
garden  of  the  Rose. 

His  dress  is  embroidered  with  figures  of  flowers  and  of 
beasts  ;  but  about  him  fly  the  living  birds.    The  French  is  : 


THE  ROBIN. 


177 


II  etoit  tout  convert  d'oisiaulx 
De  rossignols  et  de  papegaux 
De  calendre,  et  de  mesangel. 
II  semblait  que  ce  fut  une  angle 
Qui  fuz  tout  droit  venuz  du  ciel. 

36.  There  are  several  points  of  philology  in  this  transitional 
French,  and  in  Chaucer's  translation,  which  it  is  well  worth 
your  patience  to  observe.  The  monkish  Latin  "  angelus,"  you 
see,  is  passing  through  the  very  unpoetical  form  "  angle,"  into 
"  ange  ; "  but,  in  order  to  get  a  rhyme  with  it  in  that  angular 
form,  the  French  troubadour  expands  the  bird's  name,  "  mes- 
ange,"  quite  arbitrarily,  into  "  mesangel."  Then  Chaucer,  not 
liking  the  "  mes  "  at  the  beginning  of  the  word,  changes  that 
unscrupulously  into  "  arch  ;  "  and  gathers  in,  though  too 
shortly,  a  lovely  bit  from  another  place  about  the  nightingales 
flying  so  close  round  Love's  head  that  they  strike  some  of  the 
leaves  off  his  crown  of  roses  ;  so  that  the  English  runs  thus  : 

But  nightingales,  a  full  great  rout 

That  flien  over  his  head  about, 

The  leaves  felden  as  they  flien 

And  he  was  all  with  birds  wrien, 

With  popinjay,  with  nightingale, 

With  chelaundre,  and  with  wodewale, 

With  finch,  with  lark,  and  with  archangel. 

He  seemed  as  he  were  an  angell, 

That  down  were  comen  from  Heaven  clear. 

Now,  when  I  first  read  this  bit  of  Chaucer,  without  referring 
to  the  original,  I  was  greatly  delighted  to  find  that  there  was 
a  bird  in  his  time  called  an  archangel,  and  set  to  work,  with 
brightly  hopeful  industry,  to  find  out  what  it  was.  I  was  a 
little  discomfited  by  finding  that  in  old  botany  the  word  only 
meant  "  dead-nettle,"  but  was  still  sanguine  about  my  bird, 
till  I  found  the  French  form  descend,  as  you  have  seen,  into 
a  mesangel,  and  finally  into  mesange,  which  is  a  provincialism 
from  /xetor,  and  means,  the  smallest  of  birds — or,  specially  here, 
— a  titmouse.  I  have  seldom  had  a  less  expected  or  more  ig- 
nominious fall  from  the  clouds. 

37.  The  other  birds,  named  here  and  in  the  previous  de- 


178 


LOVE'S  ME1NIE. 


scription  of  the  garden,  are  introduced,  as  far  as  I  can  judge, 
nearly  at  random,  and  with  no  precision  of  imagination  like 
that  of  Aristophanes ;  but  with  a  sweet  childish  delight  in 
crowding  as  many  birds  as  possible  into  the  smallest  space. 
The  popinjay  is  always  prominent ;  and  I  want  some  of  you 
to  help  me  (for  I  have  not  time  at  present  for  the  chase)  in 
hunting  the  parrot  down  on  his  first  appearance  in  Europe* 
Just  at  this  particular  time  he  contested  favour  even  wTith  the 
falcon  ;  and  I  think  it  a  piece  of  good  fortune  that  I  chanced 
to  draw  for  you,  thinking  only  of  its  brilliant  colour,  the  pop- 
injay, which  Carpaccio  allows  to  be  present  on  the  grave  occa- 
sion of  St.  George's  baptizing  the  princess  and  her  father. 

38.  And,  indeed,  as  soon  as  the  Christian  poets  begin  to 
speak  of  the  singing  of  the  birds,  they  showT  themselves  in 
quite  a  different  mood  from  any  that  ever  occurs  to  a  Greek. 
Aristophanes,  with  infinitely  more  skill,  describes,  and  partly 
imitates,  the  singing  of  the  nightingale  ;  but  simply  as  beauti- 
ful sound.  It  "  fills  the  thickets  with  honey  ; "  and  if  in  the 
often-quoted — just  because  it  is  not  characteristic  of  Greek  lit- 
erature— passage  of  the  Coloneus,  a  deeper  sentiment  is  shown, 
that  feeling  is  dependent  on  association  of  the  bird-voices  with 
deeply  pathetic  circumstances.  But  this  troubadour  finds  his 
heart  in  heaven  by  the  power  of  the  singing  only  : — 

Trop  parfoisaient  beau  servise 
Ciz  oiselles  que  je  vous  devise. 
II  cliantaient  un  chant  ytel 
Com  fussent  angle  esperitel. 

We  want  a  moment  more  of  word-chasing  to  enjoy  this. 
cc  Oiseau,"  as  you  know,  comes  from  "  avis  ; "  but  it  had  at 
this  time  got  "  oisel "  for  its  singular  number,  of  which  the 
terminating  "  sel  "  confused  itself  with  the  "  selle,"  from  "  an- 
cilla  "  in  domisella  and  demoiselle  ;  and  the  feminine  form 
"  oiselle  "  thus  snatched  for  itself  some  of  the  delightfulness  be- 
longing to  the  title  of  a  young  lady.  Then  note  that  "esperitel " 
does  not  here  mean  merely  spiritual,  (because  all  angels  are 
spiritual,)  but  an  "  angle  esperitel  "  is  an  angel  of  the  air.  So 


the  Ronm. 


179 


that,  in  English,  we  could  only  express  the  meaning  in  w,ne 
such  fashion  as  this  — 

They  perfected  all  their  service  of  Love, 
These  maiden  birds  that  i  tell  you  of. 
They  sang  such  a  song,  so  finished-fair, 
As  if  they  were  angels,  born  of  the  air. 

39.  Such  were  the  fancies,  then,  and  the  scenes,  in  which 
Englishmen  took  delight  in  Chaucer's  time.  England  was 
then  a  simple  country  ;  we  boasted,  for  the  best  kind  of  riches, 
our  birds  and  trees,  and  our  wives  and  children.  We  have 
now  grown  to  be  a  rich  one  ;  and  our  first  pleasure  is  in  shoot- 
ing our  birds  ;  but  it  has  become  too  expensive  for  us  to  keep 
our  trees.  Lord  Derby,  whose  crest  is  the  eagle  and  child — 
you  will  find  the  northern  name  for  it,  the  bird  and  bantling, 
made  classical  by  Scott — is  the  first  to  propose  that  wood- 
birds  should  have  no  more  nests.  We  must  cut  down  all  our 
trees,  he  says,  that  we  may  effectively  use  the  steam-plough  ; 
and  the  effect  of  the  steam-plough,  I  find  by  a  recent  article 
in  the  "Cornhill  Magazine,'5  is  that  an  English  labourer  must 
not  any  more  have  a  nest,  nor  bantlings,  neither  ;  but  may 
only  expect  to  get  on  prosperously  in  life,  if  he  be  perfectly 
skilful,  sober,  and  honest,  and  dispenses,  at  least  until  he  is 
forty-fiVe,  with  the  "luxury  of  marriage." 

40.  Gentlemen,  you  may  perhaps  have  heard  me  blamed  for 
making  no  effort  here  to  teach  in  the  artizans'  schools.  But 
I  can  only  say  that,  since  the  future  life  of  the  English 
labourer  or  artizan  (summing  the  benefits  to  him  of  recent 
philosophy  and  economy)  is  to  be  passed  in  a  country  without 
angels  and  without  birds,  without  prayers  and  without  songs, 
without  trees  and  without  flowers,  in  a  state  of  exemplary 
sobriety,  and  (extending  the  Catholic  celibacy  of  the  clergy 
into  celibacy  of  the  laity)  in  a  state  of  dispensation  with  the 
luxury  of  marriage,  I  do  not  believe  he  will  derive  either 
profit  or  entertainment  from  lectures  on  the  Fine  Arts. 


180 


LOVE'S  ME1N1K 


LECTURE  n. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

41.  We  are  to-day  to  take  note  of  the  form  of  a  creature 
which  gives  us  a  singular  example  of  the  unity  of  what  artists 
call  beauty,  with  the  fineness  of  mechanical  structure,  often 
mistaken  for  it.  You  cannot  but  have  noticed  how  little,  dur- 
ing the  years  of  my  past  professorship,  I  have  introduced  any 
questions  as  to  the  nature  of  beauty.  I  avoided  them,  partly 
because  they  are  treated  of  at  length  in  my  books  ;  and  partly 
because  they  are,  in  the  last  degree,  unpractical.  We  are 
born  to  like  or  dislike  certain  aspects  of  things  ;  nor  could  I, 
by  any  arguments,  alter  the  defined  tastes  which  you  received 
at  your  birth,  and  which  the  surrounding  circumstances  of 
life  have  enforced,  without  any  possibility  of  your  voluntary 
resistance  to  them.  And  the  result  of  those  surrounding  cir- 
cumstances, to-day,  is  that  most  English  youths  would  have 
more  pleasure  in  looking  at  a  locomotive  than  at  a  swallow ; 
and  that  many  English  philosophers  would  suppose  the  pleas- 
ure so  received  to  be  through  a  new  sense  of  beauty.  But  the 
meaning  of  the  word  "  beauty  "  in  the  fine  arts,  and  in  classical 
literature,  is  properly  restricted  to  those  very  qualities  in 
which  the  locomotion  of  a  swallow  differs  from  that  of  an 
engine. 

42.  Not  only  from  that  of  an  engine  ;  but  also  from  that  of 
animals  in  wThose  members  the  mechanism  is  so  complex  as  to 
give  them  a  resemblance  to  engines.  The  dart  of  the  common 
house-fly,  for  instance,  in  full  strength,  is  a  more  wonderful 
movement  than  that  of  a  swallow.  The  mechanism  of  it  is  not 
only  more  minute,  but  the  swiftness  of  the  action  so  much 
greater,  that  the  vibration  of  the  wing  is  invisible.  But 
though  a  schoolboy  might  prefer  the  locomotive  to  the  swal- 
low, he  would  not  carry  his  admiration  of  finely  mechanical 
velocity  into  unqualified  sympathy  with  the  workmanship  of 
the  God  of  Ekron  ;  and  would  generally  suppose  that  flies 


THE  SWALLOW. 


181 


were  made  only  to  be  food  for  the  more  graceful  fly-catcher, — • 
whose  finer  grace  you  will  discover,  upon  reflection,  to  be 
owing  to  the  very  moderation  and  simplicity  of  its  structure, 
and  to  the  subduing  of  that  infinitude  of  joints,  claws,  tissues, 
veins,  and  fibres  which  inconceivably  vibrate  in  the  micro- 
scopic  *  creature's  motion,  to  a  quite  intelligible  and  simple 
balance  of  rounded  body  upon  edged  plume,  maintained  not 
without  visible,  and  sometimes  fatigued,  exertion,  and  raising 
the  lower  creature  into  fellowship  with  the  volition  and  the 
virtue  of  humanity. 

43.  With  the  virtue,  I  say,  in  an  exceedingly  qualified 
sense ;  meaning  rather  the  strength  and  art  displayed  in  over- 
coming difficulties,  than  any  distinct  morality  of  disposition. 
The  bird  has  kindly  and  homely  qualities  ;  but  its  principal 
"  virtue,"  for  -us,  is  its  being  an  incarnate  voracity,  and  that  it 
moves  as  a  consuming  and  cleansing  power.  You  sometimes 
hear  it  said  of  a  humane  person  that  he  would  not  kill  a  fly  : 
from  700  to  1000  flies  a  day  are  a  moderate  allowance  for  a 
baby  swallow. 

44.  Perhaps,  as  I  say  this,  it  may  occur  to  some  of  you  to 
think,  for  the  first  time,  of  the  reason  of  the  bird's  name. 
For  it  is  very  interesting,  as  a  piece  of  language  study,  to  con- 
sider the  different  power  on  our  minds, — nay  the  different 
sweetness  to  the  ear, — which,  from  association,  these  same 
two  syllables  receive,  when  we  read  them  as  a  noun,  or  as  a 
verb.  Also,  the  word  is  a  curious  instance  of  the  traps  which 
are  continually  open  for  rash  etymologists.  At  first,  nothing 
Would  appear  more  natural  than  that  the  name  should  have 
been  given  to  the  bird  from  its  reckless  function  of  devour- 
ing. But  if  you  look  to  your  Johnson,  you  will  find,  to  your 
better  satisfaction,  that  the  name  means  "  bird  of  porticos,'* 
or  porches,  from  the  Gothic  "  swale  ;  "  "  subdivale," — so  that 
it  goes  back  in  thought  as  far  as  Virgil's,  "  Et  nunc  porticibus 
vacuis,  nunc  humida  circum,  stagna  sonat."  Notice,  in  pass- 
ing, how  a  simile  of  Virgil's,  or  any  other  great  master's,  will 
probably  tell  in  two  or  more  ways  at  once.    Juturna  is  com- 

*  I  call  it  so  because  the  members  and  action  of  it  cannot  be  seen 
with  the  unaided  eye. 


182 


LOVES  ME  IN  IE. 


pared  to  the  swallow,  not  merely  as  winding  and  turning 
swiftly  in  her  chariot,  but  as  being  a  water-nymph  by  birth, — 
"  Stagnis  quae,  fluminibusque  sonoris,  praesidet."  How  many 
different  creatures  in  one  the  swallow  is  by  birth,  as  a  Virgil- 
ian  simile  is  many  thoughts  in  one,  it  would  take  many  more 
lectures  than  one  to  show  you  clearly  ;  but  I  will  indicate 
them  with  such  rough  sketch  as  is  possible. 

45.  It  belongs,  as  most  of  you  know,  to  a  family  of  birds 
called  Fissi-rostres,  or  literally,  split-beaks.  Split  heads  would 
be  a  better  term,  for  it  is  the  enormous  width  of  mouth  and 
power  of  gaping  which  the  epithet  is  meant  to  express.  A 
dull  sermon,  for  instance,  makes  half  the  congregation  "  fissi- 
rostres."  The  bird,  however,  is  most  vigilant  when  its  mouth 
is  widest,  for  it  opens  as  a  net  to  catch  whatever  comes  in  its 
way, — hence  the  French,  giving  the  whole  family  the  more 
literal  name,  "  Gobble-fly  " — Gobe-mouche,  extend  the  term 
to  the  open-mouthed  and  too  acceptant  appearance  of  a  sim- 
pleton. 

46.  Partly  in  order  to  provide  for  this  width  of  mouth,  but 
more  for  the  advantage  in  flight,  the  head  of  the  swallow  is 
rounded  into  a  bullet  shape,  and  sunk  down  on  the  shoulders, 
with  no  neck  whatever  between,  so  as  to  give  nearly  the  aspect 
of  a  conical  rifle  bullet  to  the  entire  front  of  the  body  ;  and, 
indeed,  the  bird  moves  more  like  a  bullet  than  an  arrow — de- 
pendent on  a  certain  impetus  of  weight  rather  than  on  sharp 
penetration  of  the  air.  I  say  dependent  on,  but  I  have  not 
yet  been  able  to  trace  distinct  relation  between  the  shapes  of 
birds  and  their  powers  of  flight.  I  suppose  the  form  of  the 
body  is  first  determined  by  the  general  habits  and  food,  and 
that  nature  can  make  any  form  she  chooses  volatile  ;  only  one 
point  I  think  is  always  notable,  that  a  complete  master  of  the 
art  of  flight  must  be  short-necked,  so  that  he  turns  altogether, 
if  he  turns  at  all.  You  don't  expect  a  swallow  to  look  round 
a  corner  before  he  goes  round  it ;  he  must  take  his  chance. 
The  main  point  is,  that  he  may  be  able  to  stop  himself,  and 
turn,  in  a  moment. 

47.  The  stopping,  on  any  terms,  is  difficult  enough  to  un- 
derstand :  nor  less  so,  the  original  gaining  of  the  pace.  We 


THE  SWALLOW, 


183 


always  think  of  flight  as  if  the  main  difficulty  of  it  were  only 
in  keeping  up  in  the  air  ; — but  the  buoyancy  is  conceivable 
enough,  the  far  more  wonderful  matter  is  the  getting  along. 
You  find  it  hard  work  to  row  yourself  at  anything  like  speed, 
though  your  impulse-stroke  is  given  in  a  heavy  element,  and 
your  return-stroke  in  a  light  one.  But  both  in  birds  and 
fishes,  the  impelling  stroke  and  its  return  are  in  the  same  ele- 
ment ;  and  if,  for  the  bird,  that  medium  yields  easily  to  its 
impulse,  it  secedes  as  easily  from  the  blow  that  gives  it.  And 
if  you  think  what  an  effort  you  make  to  leap  six  feet,  with  the 
earth  for  a  fulcrum,  the  dart  either  of  a  trout  or  a  swallow, 
with  no  fulcrum  but  the  water  and  air  they  penetrate,  will 
seem  to  you,  I  think,  greatly  marvellous.  Yet  of  the  mode  in 
which  it  is  accomplished  you  will  as  yet  find  no  undisputed 
account  in  any  book  on  natural  history,  and  scarcely,  as  far  as 
I  know,  definite  notice  even  of  the  rate  of  flight.  What  do 
you  suppose  it  is  ?  We  are  apt  to  think  of  the  migration  of  a 
swallow,  as  we  should  ourselves  of  a  serious  journey.  How 
long,  do  you  think,  it  would  take  him,  if  he  flew  uninterrupt- 
edly, to  get  from  here  to  Africa  ? 

48.  Michelet  gives  the  rate  of  his  flight  (at  full  speed,  of 
course,)  as  eighty  leagues  an  hour.  I  find  no  more  sound  au- 
thority ;  but  do  not  doubt  his  approximate  accuracy  ;  *  still 
how  curious  and  how  provoking  it  is  that  neither  White  of 
Selborne,  Bewick,  Yarrell,  nor  Gould,  says  a  word  about  this, 
one  should  have  thought  the  most  interesting,  power  of  the 
bird.f 

Taking  Michelet's  estimate — eighty  French  leagues,  roughly 
two  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  an  hour — we  have  a  thousand 
miles  in  four  hours.  That  is  to  say,  leaving  Devonshire  after 
an  early  breakfast,  he  could  be  in  Africa  to  lunch. 

*  I  wrote  this  some  time  ago,  and  the  endeavour  I  have  since  made  to 
verify  statements  on  points  of  natural  history  which  I  had  taken  on 
trust  have  given  me  reason  to  doubt  everybody's  accuracy.  The  ordi- 
nary flight  of  the  swallow  does  not,  assuredly,  even  in  the  dashes,  reach 
anything  like  this  speed. 

f  Incidentally  suggestive  sentences  occur  in  the  history  of  Selborne, 
but  its  author  never  comes  to  the  point,  in  this  case. 


184  love's  me  mm 

49.  He  could,  I  say,  if  his  flight  were  constant ;  but  though 
there  is  much  inconsistency  in  the  accounts,  the  sum  of  testi- 
mony seems  definite  that  the  swallow  is  among  the  most 
fatiguable  of  birds.  "  When  the  weather  is  hazy,"  (I  quote 
Yarrell)  "  they  will  alight  on  fishing-boats  a  league  or  two 
from  land,  so  tired  that  when  any  one  tries  to  catch  them, 
they  can  scarcely  fly  from  one  end  of  the  boat  to  the  other. 

I  have  no  time  to  read  to  you  the  interesting  evidence  on 
this  point  given  by  Yarrell,  but  only  that  of  the  brother  of 
"White  of  Selborne,  at  Gibraltar.  "My  brother  has  always 
found/'  he  himself  writes,  "that  some  of  his  birds,  and  par- 
ticularly the  swallow  kind,  are  very  sparing  of  their  pains  in 
crossing  the  Mediterranean  :  for  when  arrived  at  Gibraltar, 
they  do  not  '  set  forth  their  airy  caravan,  high  over  seas,'  but 
scout  and  hurry  along  in  little  detached  parties  of  six  or  seven 
in  a  company  ;  and  sweeping  low,  just  over  the  surface  of  the 
land  and  water,  direct  their  course  to  the  opposite  continent  at 
the  narrowest  passage  they  can  find." 

50.  You  will  observe,  however,  that  it  remains  an  open 
question  whether  this  fear  of  the  sea  may  not  be,  in  the  swal- 
low, like  ours  of  the  desert.  The  commissariat  department  is 
a  serious  one  for  birds  that  eat  a  thousand  flies  a  day  when 
just  out  of  the  egg  ;  and  it  is  possible  that  the  weariness  of 
swallows  at  sea  may  depend  much  more  on  fasting  than  flying. 
Captain  (or  Admiral?)  Sir  Charles  Wager  says  that  "one 
spring-time,  as  he  came  into  soundings  in  the  English  Chan- 
nel, a  great  flock  of  swallows  came  and  settled  on  all  his  rig- 
ging ;  every  rope  was  covered  ;  they  hung  on  one  another 
like  a  swarm  of  bees  ;  even  the  decks  were  filled  with  them. 
They  seemed  almost  famished  and  spent,  and  were  only  feath- 
ers and  bone  ;  but,  being  recruited  with  a  night's  rest,  took 
their  flight  in  the  morning." 

51.  Now  I  detain  you  on  this  point  somewhat,  because  it  is 
intimately  connected  with  a  more  important  one.  I  told  you 
we  should  learn  from  the  swallow  what  a  wing  was.  Few 
other  birds  approach  him  in  the  beauty  of  it,  or  apparent 
power.  And  yet,  after  all  this  care  taken  about  it,  he  gets 
tired ;  and  instead  of  flying,  as  we  should  do  in  his  place  all 


THE  SWALLOW. 


185 


over  the  world,  and  tasting  the  flavor  of  the  midges  in  every 
marsh  which  the  infinitude  of  human  folly  has  left  to  breed 
gnats  instead  of  growing  corn, — he  is  of  all  birds,  character- 
istically, except  when  he  absolutely  can't  help  it,  the  stayer  at 
home  ;  and  contentedly  lodges  himself  and  his  family  in  an 
old  chimney,  when  he  might  be  flying  all  over  the  world. 

At  least  you  would  think,  if  he  built  in  an  English  chimney 
this  year,  he  would  build  in  a  French  one  next.  But  no. 
Michelet  prettily  says  of  him,  "  He  is  the  bird  of  return."  If 
you  will  only  treat  him  kindly,  year  after  year,  he  comes  back 
to  the  same  niche,  and  to  the  same  hearth,  for  his  nest. 

To  the  same  niche  ;  and  builds  himself  an  opaque  walled 
house  within  that.  Think  of  this  a  little,  as  if  you  heard  of  it 
for  the  first  time. 

52.  Suppose  you  had  never  seen  a  swallow  ;  but  that  its 
general  habit  of  life  had  been  described  to  you,  and  you  had 
been  asked,  how  you  thought  such  a  bird  would  build  its 
nest.  A  creature,  observe,  whose  life  is  to  be  passed  in  the  air  ; 
whose  beak  and  throat  are  shaped  with  the  fineness  of  a  net 
for  the  catching  of  gnats ;  and  whose  feet,  in  the  most  perfect 
of  the  species,  are  so  feeble  that  it  is  called  the  Footless  Swal- 
low, and  cannot  stand  a  moment  on  the  ground  with  comfort. 
Of  all  land  birds,  the  one  that  has  least  to  do  with  the  earth ; 
of  all,  the  least  disposed,  and  the  least  able,  to  stop  to  pick 
anything  up.  What  will  it  build  with  ?  Gossamer,  we  should 
sav, — thistledown, — anything  it  can  catch  floating,  like  flies. 

But  it  builds  with  stiff  clay. 

53.  And  observe  its  chosen  place  for  building  also.  You 
would  think,  by  its  play  in  the  air,  that  not  only  of  all  birds, 
but  of  all  creatures,  it  most  delighted  in  space  and  freedom. 
You  would  fancy  its  notion  of  the  place  for  a  nest  would  be 
the  openest  field  it  could  find  ;  that  anything  like  confinement 
would  be  an  agony  to  it ;  that  it  wrould  almost  expire  of  horror 
at  the  sight  of  a  black  hole. 

And  its  favourite  home  is  down  a  chimney. 

54.  Not  for  your  hearth's  sake,  nor  for  your  company's. 
Do  not  think  it.  The  bird  will  love  you  if  you  treat  it  kindly ; 
is  as  frank  and  friendly  as  bird  can  be  ;  but  it  does  not,  more 


186 


LOVE'S  ME  IN  IE. 


than  others,  seek  your  society.  It  comes  to  your  house  be 
cause  in  no  wild  wood,  nor  rough  rock,  can  it  find  a  cavity 
close  enough  to  please  it.  It  comes  for  the  blessedness  of  im- 
prisonment, and  the  solemnity  of  an  unbroken  and  constant 
shadow,  in  the  tower,  or  under  the  eaves. 

Do  you  suppose  that  this  is  part  of  its  necessary  economy, 
and  that  a  swallow  could  not  catch  flies  unless  it  lived  in  a 
hole? 

Not  so.  This  instinct  is  part  of  its  brotherhood  with 
another  race  of  creatures.  It  is  given  to  complete  a  mesh  in 
the  reticulation  of  the  orders  of  life. 

55.  t  have  already  given  you  several  reasons  for  my  wish 
that  you  should  retain,  in  classifying  birds,  the  now  rejected 
order  of  Picae.  I  am  going  to  read  you  a  passage  from  Hum- 
boldt, which  shows  you  what  difficulties  one  may  get  into  for 
want  of  it. 

You  will  find  in  the  second  volume  of  his  personal  narrative, 
an  account  of  the  cave  of  Caripe  in  New  Andalusia,  which  is 
inhabited  by  entirely  nocturnal  birds,  having  the  gaping 
mouths  of  the  goat-sucker  and  the  swallow,  and  yet  feeding 
on  fruit. 

Unless,  which  Mr.  Humboldt  does  not  tell  us,  they  sit 
under  the  trees  outside,  in  the  night  time,  and  hold  their 
mouths  open,  for  the  berries  to  drop  into,  there  is  not  the 
smallest  occasion  for  their  having  wide  mouths,  like  swallows. 
Still  less  is  there  any  need,  since  they  are  fruit  eaters,  for 
their  living  in  a  cavern  1,500  feet  out  of  daylight.  They  have 
only,  in  consequence,  the  trouble  of  carrying  in  the  seeds  to 
feed  their  young,  and  the  floor  of  the  cave  is  thus  covered,  by 
the  seeds  they  let  fall,  with  a  growth  of  unfortunate  pale 
plants,  which  have  never  seen  day.  Nay,  they  are  not  even 
content  with  the  darkness  of  their  cave ;  but  build  their  nests 
in  the  funnels  with  which  the  roof  of  the  grotto  is  pierced  like 
a  sieve  ;  live  actually  in  the  chimney,  not  of  a  house,  but  of  an 
Egyptian  sepulchre  !  The  colour  of  this  bird,  of  so  remark- 
able taste  in  lodging,  Humboldt  tells  us,  is  "of  dark  bluish- 
grey,  mixed  with  streaks  and  specks  of  black.  Large  white 
spots,  which  have  the  form  of  a  heart,  and  which  are  bordered 


THE  SWALLOW. 


187 


with  black,  mark  the  head,  the  wings,  and  the  tail.  The 
spread  of  the  wings,  which  are  composed  of  seventeen  or 
eighteen  quill  feathers,  is  three  feet  and  a  half.  Suppressing, 
with  Mr.  Cuvier,  the  order  of  Picae,  we  must  refer  this  ex- 
traordinary bird  to  the  Sparrows" 

56.  We  can  only  suppose  that  it  must  be,  to  our  popular 
sparrows,  what  the  swallow  of  the  cinnamon  country  is  to  our 
subordinate  swallow.  Do  you  recollect  the  cinnamon  swal- 
lows of  Herodotus,  who  build  their  mud  nests  in  the  faces  of 
the  cliffs  where  Dionusos  was  brought  up,  and  where  nobody 
can  get  near  them  ;  and  how  the  cinnamon  merchants  fetch 
them  joints  of  meat,  which  the  unadvised  birds,  flying  up  to 
their  nests  with,  instead  of  cinnamon, — nest  and  all  come  down 
together, — the  original  of  Sindbad's  valley-of-diamond  story  ? 

57.  Well,  Humboldt  is  reduced,  by  necessities  of  recent 
classification,  to  call  a  bird  three  feet  and  a  half  across  the 
wings,  a  sparrow.  I  have  no  right  to  laugh  at  him,  for  I  am 
just  going,  myself,  to  call  the  cheerfullest  and  brightest  of 
birds  of  the  air,  an  owl.  All  these  architectural  and  sepul- 
chral habits,  these  Egyptian  manners  of  the  sand-martin,  dig- 
ging caves  in  the  sand,  and  border-trooper's  habits  of  the 
chimney  swallow,  living  in  round  towers  instead  of  open  air, 
belong  to  them  as  connected  with  the  tribe  of  the  falcons 
through  the  owls  !  and  not  only  so,  but  with  the  mammalia 
through  the  bats  !  A  swallow  is  an  emancipated  owl,  and  a 
glorified  bat ;  but  it  never  forgets  its  fellowship  with  night. 

58.  Its  ancient  fellowship,  I  had  nearly  written  ;  so  natural 
is  it  to  think  of  these  similarly-minded  creatures,  when  the 
feelings  that  both  show  are  evidently  useless  to  one  of  them, 
as  if  the  inferior  had  changed  into  the  higher.  The  doctrine 
of  development  seems  at  first  to  explain  all  so  pleasantly,  that 
the  scream  of  consent  with  which  it  has  been  accepted  by 
men  of  science,  and  the  shriller  vociferation  of  the  public's 
gregarious  applause,  scarcely  permit  you  the  power  of  antag- 
onist reflection.  I  must  justify  to-day,  in  graver  tone  than 
usual,  the  terms  in  which  I  have  hitherto  spoken, — it  may 
have  been  thought  with  less  than  the  due  respect  to  my  audi- 
ence,— of  the  popular  theory. 


188 


LOVE'S  ME  IN  IE. 


59.  Supposing  that  the  octohedrons  of  galena,  of  gold,  and 
of  oxide  of  iron,  were  endowed  with  powers  of  reproduction, 
and  perished  at  appointed  dates  of  dissolution  or  solution, 
you  would  without  any  doubt  have  heard  it  by  this  time  as- 
serted that  the  octohedric  form,  which  was  common  to  all, 
indicated  their  descent  from  a  common  progenitor ;  and  it 
would  have  been  ingeniously  explained  to  you  how  the  angu- 
lar offspring  of  this  eight-sided  ancestor  had  developed  them- 
selves, by  force  of  circumstances,  into  their  distinct  metallic 
perfections  ;  how  the  galena  had  become  grey  and  brittle 
under  prolonged  subterranean  heat,  and  the  gold  yellow  and 
ductile,  as  it  was  rolled  among  the  pebbles  of  amber-coloured 
streams. 

60.  By  the  denial  to  these  structures  of  any  individually 
reproductive  energy,  you  are  forced  to  accept  the  inexplicable 
(and  why  expect  it  to  be  otherwise  than  inexplicable  ?)  fact, 
of  the  formation  of  a  series  of  bodies  having  very  similar 
aspects,  qualities,  and  chemical  relations  to  other  substances, 
which  yet  have  no  connection  whatever  with  each  other,  and 
are  governed,  in  their  relation  with  their  native  rocks,  by 
entirely  arbitrary  laws.  It  has  been  the  pride  of  modern 
chemistry  to  extricate  herself  from  the  vanity  of  the  alchemist, 
and  to  admit,  with  resignation,  the  independent,  though  ap- 
parently fraternal,  natures,  of  silver,  of  lead,  of  platinum, — 
aluminium, — potassium.  Hence,  a  rational  philosophy  would 
deduce  the  probability  that  when  the  arborescence  of  dead 
crystallization  rose  into  the  radiation  of  the  living  tree,  and 
sentient  plume,  the  splendour  of  nature  in  her  more  exalted 
power  would  not  be  restricted  to  a  less  variety  of  design  ;  and 
the  beautiful  caprice  in  which  she  gave  to  the  silver  its  frost, 
and  to  the  opal  its  fire,  w7ould  not  be  subdued  under  the  slow 
influences  of  accident  and  time,  when  she  wreathed  the  swan 
with  snow,  and  bathed  the  dove  in  iridescence.  That  the 
infinitely  more  exalted  powers  of  life  must  exercise  more  inti- 
mate influence  over  matter  than  the  reckless  forces  of  cohe- 
sion ; — and  that  the  loves  and  hatreds  of  the  now  conscious 
creatures  would  modify  their  forms  into  parallel  beauty  and 
degradation,  we  might  have  anticipated  by  reason,  and  we 


THE  SWALLOW. 


189 


ought  long  since  to  have  known  by  observation.  But  this 
law  of  its  spirit  over  the  substance  of  the  creature  involves, 
necessarily,  the  indistinctness  of  its  type,  and  the  existence  of 
inferior  and  of  higher  conditions,  which  whole  seras  of  hero- 
ism and  affection — whole  geras  of  misery  and  misconduct,  con- 
firm into  glory,  or  confuse  into  shame.  Collecting  the  causes 
of  changed  form,  in  lower  creatures,  by  distress,  or  by  adapta- 
tion,—  by  the  disturbance  or  intensifying  of  the  parental 
strength,  and  the  native  fortune — the  wonder  is,  not  that 
species  should  sometimes  be  confused,  but  that  the  greater 
number  of  them  remain  so  splendidly,  so  manifestly,  so  eter- 
nally distinct ;  and  that  the  vile  industries  and  vicious  curios- 
ities of  modem  science,  while  they  have  robbed  the  fields  of 
England  of  a  thousand  living  creatures,  have  not  created  in 
them  one. 

61.  But  even  in  the  paltry  knowledge  we  have  obtained, 
what  unanimity  have  we  ? — what  security  ?  Suppose  any  man 
of  ordinary  sense,  knowing  the  value  of  time,  and  the  relative 
importance  of  subjects  of  thought,  and  that  the  whole  scientific 
world  was  agog  concerning  the  origin  of  species,  desired  to 
know  first  of  all — what  was  meant  by  a  species. 

He  would  naturally  look  for  the  definition  of  species  first 
among  the  higher  animals,  and  expect  it  to  be  best  defined 
in  those  which  were  best  known.  And  being  referred  for 
satisfaction  to  the  220th  page  of  the  first  volume  of  Mr.  Dar- 
win's "Descent  of  Man,"  he  would  find  this  passage  : — 

"Man  has  been  studied  more  carefully  than  any  other 
organic  being,  and  yet  there  is  the  greatest  possible  diversity 
among  capable  judges,  whether  he  should  be  classed  as  a  sin- 
gle species  or  race,  or  as  two  (Virey),  as  three  (Jacquinot), 
as  four  (Kant),  five  (Blumenbach),  six  (Buffon),  seven  (Hunter), 
eight  (Agassiz),  eleven  (Pickering),  fifteen  (BorySt.  Vincent), 
sixteen  (Desmouiins),  twenty-two  (Morton),  sixty  (Crawford), 
or  as  sixt3^-three  according  to  Burke." 

And  in  the  meantime,  while  your  men  of  science  are  thus 
vacillating,  in  the  definition  of  the  species  of  the  only  animal 
they  have  the  opportunity  of  studying  inside  and  out,  between 
one  and  sixty-three  ;  and  disputing  about  the  origin,  in  past 


190 


LOVE'S  ME1NIE. 


ages,  of  what  they  cannot  define  in  the  present  one  ;  and  de< 
ciphering  the  filthy  heraldries  which  record  the  relation  of 
humanity  to  the  ascidian  and  the  crocodile,  you  have  ceased 
utterly  to  distinguish  between  the  two  species  of  man,  ever- 
more separate  by  infinite  separation  :  of  whom  the  one,  capa- 
ble of  loyalty  and  of  love,  can  at  least  conceive  spiritual 
natures  which  have  no  taint  from  their  own,  and  leave  behind 
them,  diffused  among  thousands  on  earth,  the  happiness  they 
never  hoped,  for  themselves,  in  the  skies  ;  and  the  other, 
capable  only  of  avarice,  hatred,  and  shame,  who  in  their  lives 
are  the  companions  of  the  swine,  and  leave  in  death  nothing 
but  food  for  the  worm  and  the  vulture. 

G2.  Now  I  have  first  traced  for  you  the  relations  of  the 
creature  we  are  examining  to  those  beneath  it  and  above,  to 
the  bat  and  to  the  falcon.  But  you  will  find  that  it  has 
still  others  to  entirely  another  world,  As  you  watch  it  glance 
and  skim  over  the  surface  of  the  waters,  has  it  never  struck 
you  what  relation  it  bears  to  the  creatures  that  glance  and 
glide  under  their  surface  ?  Fly-catchers,  some  of  them,  also, 
— fly-catchers  in  the  same  manner,  with  wide  mouth  ;  while 
in  motion  the  bird  almost  exactly  combines  the  dart  of  the 
trout  with  the  dash  of  the  dolphin,  to  the  rounded  forehead 
and  projecting  muzzle  of  which  its  own  bullet  head  and  bill 
exactly  correspond.  In  its  plunge,  if  you  watch  it  bathing, 
yon  may  see  it  dip  its  breast  just  as  much  under  the  water  as 
a  porpoise  shows  its  back  above.  You  can  only  rightly  de- 
scribe the  bird  by  the  resemblances,  and  images  of  what  it 
seems  to  have  changed  from, — then  adding  the  fantastic  and 
beautiful  contrast  of  the  unimaginable  change.  It  is  an  owl 
that  has  been  trained  by  the  Graces.  It  is  a  bat  that  loves 
the  morning  light.  It  is  the  aerial  reflection  of  a  dolphin. 
It  is  the  tender  domestication  of  a  trout. 

63.  And  yet  be  assured,  as  it  cannot  have  been  all  these 
creatures,  so  it  has  never,  in  truth,  been  any  of  them.  The 
transformations  believed  in  by  the  rnythologists  are  at  least 
spiritually  true ;  you  cannot  too  carefully  trace  or  too  accu- 
rately consider  them.  But  the  transformations  believed  in 
by  the  anatomist  are  as  yet  proved  true  in  no  single  instance, 


THE  SWALLOW. 


191 


and  in  no  substance,  spiritual  or  material ;  and  I  cannot  too 
often,  or  too  earnestly,  urge  you  not  to  waste  your  time  in 
guessing  what  animals  may  once  have  been,  while  you  remain 
in  nearly  total  ignorance  of  what  they  are. 

64.  Do  you  even  know  distinctly  from  each  other, — (for 
that  is  the  real  naturalist's  business  ;  instead  of  confounding 
them  with  each  other), — do  you  know  distinctly  the  five  great 
species  of  this  familiar  bird  ? — the  swallow,  the  house-martin, 
the  sand-martin,  the  swift,  and  the  Alpine  swift? — or  can  you 
so  much  as  answer  the  first  question  which  would  suggest  it- 
self to  any  careful  observer  of  the  form  of  its  most  familiar 
species, — yet  which  I  do  not  find  proposed,  far  less  answered, 
in  any  scientific  book,— namely,  why  a  swallow  has  a  swallow- 
tail? 

It  is  true  that  the  tail  feathers  in  many  birds  appear  to  be 
entirely, — even  cumbrously,  decorative  ;  as  in  the  peacock, 
and  birds  of  paradise.  But  I  am  confident  that  it  is  not  so 
in  the  swallow,  and  that  the  forked  tail,  so  defined  in  form 
and  strong  in  plume,  has  indeed  important  functions  in  guid- 
ing the  flight ;  yet  notice  how  surrounded  one  is  on  all  sides 
with  pitfalls  for  the  theorists.  The  forked  tail  reminds  you 
at  once  of  a  fish's  ;  and  yet,  the  action  of  the  two  creatures  is 
wholly  contrary.  A  fish  lashes  himself  forward  with  his  tail, 
and  steers  with  his  fins  ;  a  swallow  lashes  himself  forward 
with  his  fins,  and  steers  with  his  tail ;  partly,  not  necessarily, 
because  in  the  most  dashing  of  the  swallows,  the  swift,  the 
fork  of  the  tail  is  the  least  developed.  And  I  never  watch 
the  bird  for  a  moment  without  finding  myself  in  some  fresh 
puzzle  out  of  which  there  is  no  clue  in  the  scientific  books. 
I  want  to  know,  for  instance,  how  the  bird  turns.  What 
does  it  do  with  one  wing,  what  with  the  other?  Fancy  the 
pace  that  has  to  be  stopped  ;  the  force  of  bridle-hand  put  out 
in  an  instant.  Fancy  how  the  wings  must  bend  with  the 
strain  ;  what  need  there  must  be  for  the  perfect  aid  and  work 
of  every  feather  in  them.  There  is  a  problem  for  you,  stu- 
dents of  mechanics, — How  does  a  swallow  turn  ? 

You  shall  see,  at  all  events,  to  begin  with,  to-day,  how  it 
gets  along. 


192 


LOVE'S  ME  IN  IE. 


65.  I  say  you  shall  see  ;  but  indeed  you  have  often  seen, 
and  felt, — at  least  with  your  hands,  if  not  with  your  shoul- 
ders,— when  you  chanced  to  be  holding  the  sheet  of  a  sail. 

I  have  said  that  I  never  got  into  scrapes  by  blaming  people 
wrongly  ;  but  I  often  do  by  praising  them  wrongly.  I  never 
praised,  without  qualification,  but  one  scientific  book  in  my 
life  (that  I  remember) — this  of  Dr.  Pettigrew's  on  the  Wing  ;* 
— and  now  I  must  qualify  my  praise  considerably,  discover- 
ing, when  I  examined  the  book  farther,  that  the  good  doctor 
had  described  the  motion  of  a  bird  as  resembling  that  of  a 
kite,  without  ever  inquiring  what,  in  a  bird,  represented  that 
somewhat  important  part  of  a  kite,  the  string.  You  will, 
however,  find  the  book  full  of  important  observations,  and 
illustrated  by  valuable  drawings.    But  the  point  in  question 

*  "On  the  Physiology  of  Wings."  Transactions  of  the  Royal  Society 
of  Edinburgh.  Vol.  xxvi. ,  Part  ii.  I  cannot  sufficiently  express  either 
my  wonder  or  regret  at  the  petulance  in  which  men  of  science  are  con- 
tinually tempted  into  immature  publicity,  by  their  rivalship  with  each 
other.  Page  after  page  of  this  book,  which,  slowly  digested  and  taken 
counsel  upon,  might  have  been  a  noble  contribution  to  natural  history, 
is  occupied  with  dispute  utterly  useless  to  the  reader,  on  the  question 
of  the  priority  of  the  author,  by  some  months,  to  a  French  savant,  in 
the  statement  of  a  principle  which  neither  has  yet  proved ;  while  page 
after  page  is  rendered  worse  than  useless  to  the  reader  by  the  author's 
passionate  endeavour  to  contradict  the  ideas  of  unquestionably  previous 
investigators.  The  problem  of  flight  was,  to  all  serious  purpose,  solved 
by  Borelli  in  1680,  and  the  following  passage  is  very  notable  as  an  ex- 
ample of  the  way  in  which  the  endeavour  to  obscure  the  light  of  former 
ages  too  fatally  dims  and  distorts  that  by  which  modern  men  of  science 
walk,  themselves.  "  Borelli,  and  all  who  have  written  since  his  time, 
are  unanimous  in  affirming  that  the  horizontal  transference  of  the  body 
of  the  bird  is  due  to  the  perpendicular  vibration  of  the  wings,  and  to 
the  yielding  of  the  posterior  or  flexible  margins  of  the  wings  in  an  up- 
ward direction,  as  the  wings  descend.  I"  (Dr.  Pettigrew)  "am,  how- 
ever, disposed  to  attribute  it  to  the  fact  (1st),  that  the  icings,  both  when 
elevated  and  depressed,  leap  forwards  in  curves,  those  curves  uniting  to 
form  a  continuous  waved  track  ;  (2nd),  to  the  tendency  which  the  body 
of  the  bird  has  to  siting  forwards,  in  a  more  or  less  horizontal  direction, 
when  once  set  in  motion ;  (3rd),  to  the  construction  of  the  wings ;  they 
are  elastic  helices  or  screws,  which  twist  and  untwist  while  they  vibrate, 
and  tend  to  bear  upwards  and  onwards  any  weight  suspended  from  them  ; 
(4th),  to  the  reaction  of  the  air  on  the  under  surfaces  of  the  wings ;  (5th), 


THE  SWALLOW. 


193 


you  must  settle  for  yourselves,  and  you  easily  may.  Some  of 
you,  perhaps,  knew,  in  your  time,  better  than  the  doctor, 
how  a  kite  stopped  ;  but  I  do  not  doubt  that  a  great  many  of 
you  also  know,  now,  what  is  much  more  to  the  purpose,  how 
a  ship  gets  along.  I  will  take  the  simplest,  the  most  natural, 
the  most  beautiful  of  sails, — the  lateen  sail  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean. 

66.  I  draw  it  rudely  in  outline,  as  it  would  be  set  for  a 
side-wind  on  the  boat  you  probably  know  best, — the  boat  of 
burden  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva  (Fig.  3),  not  confusing  the 
drawing  by  adding  the  mast,  whicfa,  you  know,  rakes  a  little, 
carrying  the  yard  across  it.  (a).  Then,  with  your  permis- 
sion, I  will  load  my  boat  thus,  with  a  few  casks  of  Vevay 
vintage — and,  to  keep  them  cool,  we  will  put  an  awning  over 

to  the  ever-varying  poicer  with  which  the  icings  are  urged,  this  being 
greatest  at  the  beginning  of  the  down-stroke,  and  least  at  the  end  of 
the  up  one  ;  (6th),  to  the  contraction  of  the  voluntary  muscles  and  elastic 
ligaments,  and  to  the  effect  produced  by  the  various  inclined  surfaces 
formed  by  the  wings  during  their  oscillations  ;  (7th),  to  the  weight  of 
the  bird — weight  itself,  when  acting  upon  wings,  becoming  a  propelling 
power,  and  so  contributing  to  horizontal  motion." 

I  will  collect  these  seven  reasons  for  the  forward  motion,  in  the  gist 
of  them,  which  I  have  marked  by  italics,  that  the  reader  may  better 
judge  of  their  collective  value.  The  bird  is  carried  forward,  according 
to  Dr.  Pettigrew — 

1.  Because  its  wings  leap  forward. 

2.  Because  its  body  has  a  tendency  to  swing  forward. 

3.  Because  the  wings  are  screws  so  constructed  as  to  screw  upwards 

and  onwards  any  body  suspended  from  them. 

4.  Because  the  air  reacts  on  the  under  surfaces- of  the  wings. 

5.  Because  the  wings  are  urged  with  ever-varying  power. 

6.  Because  the  voluntary  muscles  contract. 

7.  Because  the  bird  is  heavy. 

What  must  be  the  general  conditions  of  modern  science,  when  it  is 
possible  for  a  man  of  great  experimental  knowledge  and  practical  in- 
genuity, to  publish  nonsense  such  as  this,  becoming,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  insane,  in  the  passion  of  his  endeavour  to  overthrow  the 
statements  of  his  rival  ?  Had  he  merely  taken  patience  to  consult  any 
elementary  scholar  in  dynamics,  he  would  have  been  enabled  to  under- 
stand his  own  machines,  and  develop,  with  credit  to  himself,  what  had 
been  rightly  judged  or  noticed  by  others. 


194 


LOVE'S  MEIN1E. 


them,  so  (6).  Next,  as  we  are  classical  scholars,  instead  of  this 
rustic  stem  of  the  boat,  meant  only  to  run  easily  on  a  flat 
shore,  we  will  give  it  an  Attic  e^oXov  (c).  (We  have  no  busi- 
ness, indeed,  yet,  to  put  an  e^oXov  oh  a  boat  of  burden,  but 
I  hope  some  day  to  see  all  our  ships  of  war  loaded  with  bread 
and  wine,  instead  of  artillery.)  Then  I  shade  the  entire  form 
(c) ;  and,  lastly,  reflect  it  in  the  water  (d) — and  you  have  seen 
something  like  that  before,  besides  a  boat,  haven't  you  ? 


a  b  c 


d 

Fig.  3. 


There  is  the  gist  of  the  whole  business  for  you,  put  in  very 
small  space  ;  with  these  only  differences :  in  a  boat,  the  air 
strikes  the  sail ;  in  a  bird,  the  sail  strikes  the  air :  in  a  boat, 
the  force  is  lateral,  and  in  a  bird  downwards  ;  and  it  has  its 
sail  on  both  sides.  I  shall  leave  you  to  follow  out  the 
mechanical  problem  for  yourselves,  as  far  as  the  mere  resolu- 


THE  SWALLOW. 


195 


tion  of  force  is  concerned.  My  business,  as  a  painter,  is 
only  with  the  exquisite  organic  weapon  that  deals  with  it. 

67.  Of  which  you  are  now  to  note  farther,  that  a  bird  is 
required  to  manage  his  wing  so  as  to  obtain  two  results  with 
one  blow: — he  has  to  keep  himself  up,  as  well  as  to  get 
along. 

But  observe,  he  only  requires  to  keep  himself  up  because 
he  has  to  get  along.  The  buoyancy  might  have  been  given  at 
once,  if  nature  had  wanted  that  only  ;  she  might  have  blown 
the  feathers  up  with  the  hot  air  of  the  breath,  till  the  bird 
rose  in  air  like  a  cork  in  water.  But  it  has  to  be,  not  a 
buoyant  cork,  but  a  buoyant  bullet.  And  therefore  that  it  may 
have  momentum  for  pace,  it  must  have  weight  to  carry  ;  and 
to  carry  that  weight,  the  wings  must  deliver  their  blow  with 
effective  vertical,  as  well  as  oblique,  force. 

Here,  again,  you  may  take  the  matter  in  brief  sum.  What- 
ever is  the  ship's  loss  is  the  bird's  gain  ;  whatever  tendency 
the  ship  has  to  leeway,  is  all  given  to  the  bird's  support,  so 
that  every  atom  *  of  force  in  the  blow  is  of  service. 

68.  Therefore  you  have  to  construct  your  organic  weapon, 
so  that  this  absolutely  and  perfectly  economized  force  may  be 
distributed  as  the  bird  chooses  at  any  moment.  That,  if  it 
wants  to  rise,  it  may  be  able  to  strike  vertically  more  than 
obliquely ; — if  the  order  is,  go  a-head,  that  it  may  put  the 
oblique  screw  on.  If  it  wants  to  stop  in  an  instant,  that  it 
may  be  able  to  throw  its  wings  up  full  to  the  wind ;  if  it 
wants  to  hover,  that  it  may  be  able  to  lay  itself  quietly  on  the 
wind  with  its  wings  and  tail,  or,  in  calm  air,  to  regulate  their 
vibration  and  expansion  into  tranquillity  of  gliding,  or  of 
pausing  power.  Given  the  various  proportions  of  weight  and 
wing ;  the  conditions  of  possible  increase  of  muscular  force 
and  quill-strength  in  proportion  to  size ;  and  the  different 
objects  and  circumstances  of  flight, — you  have  a  series  of  ex- 
quisitely complex  problems,  and  exquisitely  perfect  solutions, 
which  the  life  of  the  youngest  among  you  cannot  be  long 

*  I  don't  know  what  word  to  use  for  an  infinitesimal  degree  or  divided 
portion  of  force :  one  can't  properly  speak  of  a  force  being  cut  into 
pieces ;  but  I  can  think  of  no  other  word  than  atom. 


196 


LOVES  MEINIE. 


enough  to  read  through  so  much  as  once,  and  of  which 
the  future  infinitudes  of  human  life,  however  granted  or  ex- 
tended, never  will  be  fatigued  in  admiration. 

69.  I  take  the  rude  outline  of  sail  in  Fig.  3,  and  now  con- 
sidering it  as  a  jib  of  one  of  our  own  sailing  vessels,  slightly 
exaggerate  the  loops  at  the  edge,  and  draw  curved  lines  from 

them  to  the  opposite  point,  Fig.  4  ;  and  I  haye 
a  reptilian  or  dragon's  wing,  which  would, 
with  some  ramification  of  the  supporting  ribs, 
become  a  bat' s  or  moth's ;  that  is  to  say,  an 
extension  of  membrane  between  the  ribs  (as 
in  an  umbrella),  which  will  catch  the  wind, 
and  flutter  upon  it,  like  a  leaf ;  but  cannot 
strike  it  to  any  purpose.  The  flying  squirrel 
drifts  like  a  falling  leaf ;  the  bat  flits  like  a 
black  rag  torn  at  the  edge.  To  give  power, 
we  must  have  plumes  that  can  strike,  as  with 
the  flat  of  a  sword-blade  ;  and  to  give  perfect 
power,  these  must  be  laid  over  each  other,  so 
that  each  may  support  the  one  below  it.  I  use 
the  word  below  advisedly :  wre  have  to  strike 
down,  The  lowest  feather  is  the  one  that  first  meets  the  ad- 
verse force.   It  is  the  one  to  be  supported. 

Now  for  the  manner  of  the  support.  You  must  all  know 
w7ell  the  look  of  the  machicolated  parapets  in  mediaeval  cas- 
tles. You  know  they  are  carried  on  rows  of  small,  projecting 
buttresses  constructed  so  that,  though  the  uppermost  stone, 
far-projecting,  would  break  easily  under  any  shock,  it  is  sup- 
ported by  the  next  below,  and  so  on,  down  to  the  wall.  Now 
in  this  figure  I  am  obliged  to  separate  the  feathers  by  white 
spaces,  to  show  you  them  distinctly.  In  reality  they  are  set 
as  close  to  each  other  as  can  be,  but  putting  them  as 
close  as  I  can,  you  get  a  or  b,  Fig.  5,  for  the  rough  section 
of  the  wing*,  thick  towards  the  bird's  head,  and  curved  like  a 
sickle,  so  that  in  striking  down  it  catches  the  air,  like  a  reap- 
ing-hook, and  in  rising  up,  it  throws  off  the  air  like  a  pent- 
house. 

70.  The  stroke  wrould  therefore  be  vigorous,  and  the  re 


THE  SWALLOW. 


197 


covery  almost  effortless,  were  even  the  direction  of  both  actu- 
ally vertical.  Bat  they  are  vertical  only  with  relation  to  the 
bird's  body.  In  space  they  follow  the  forward  flight,  in  a 
softly  curved  line  ;  the  downward  stroke  being*  as  effective  as 
the  bird  chooses,  the  recovery  scarcely  encounters  resistance 
in  the  softly  gliding  ascent.  Thus,  in  Fig.  5,  (I  can  only  ex- 
plain this  to  readers  a  little  versed  in  the  elements  of  mechan- 
ics,) if  b  is  the  locus  of  the  centre  of  gravit}^  of  the  bird, 
moving  in  slow  flight  in  the  direction  of  the  arrow,  w  is  the 
locus  of  the  leading  feather  of  its  wing,  and  a  and  b,  roughly, 
the  successive  positions  of  the  wing  in  the  down-stroke  and 
recovery. 


a  6 


Fig.  5. 


71.  I  say  the  down-stroke  is  as  effective  as  the  bird  chooses  ; 
that  is  to  say,  it  can  be  given  with  exactly  the  quantity  of  im- 
pulse, and  exactly  the  quantity  of  supporting  power,  required 
at  the  moment.  Thus,  when  the  bird  wants  to  fly  slowly,  the 
wings  are  fluttered  fast,  giving  vertical  blows  ;  if  it  wants  to 
pause  absolutely  in  still  air,  (this  large  birds  cannot  do,  not  be- 
ing able  to  move  their  wings  fast  enough,)  the  velocity  becomes 
vibration,  as  in  the  humming-bird  :  but  if  there  is  wind,  any  of 
the  larger  birds  can  lay  themselves  on  it  like  a  kite,  their  own 
weight  answering  the  purpose  of  the  string,  while  they  keep 
the  wings  and  tail  in  an  inclined  plane,  giving  them  as  much 
gliding  ascent  as  counteracts  the  fall.  They  nearly  all,  how- 
ever, use  some  slightly  gliding  force  at  the  same  time  ;  a  single 
stroke  of  the  wing,  with  forward  intent,  seeming  enough  to 
enable  them  to  glide  on  for  half  a  minute  or  more  without 
stirring  a  plume.  A  circling  eagle  floats  an  inconceivable  time 
without  visible  stroke  :  (fancy  the  pretty  action  of  the  inner 
wing,  backing  air  instead  of  water,  which  gives  exactly  the 


198 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


breadth  of  circle  he  chooses).  But  for  exhibition  of  the  com- 
plete art  of  flight,  a  swallow  on  rough  water  is  the  master  of 
masters.  A  seagull,  with  all  its  splendid  power,  generally  has 
its  work  cut  out  for  it,  and  is  visibly  fighting  ;  but  the  swal- 
low plays  with  wind  and  wave  as  a  girl  plays  with  her  fan,  and 

there  are  no  words  to  say 
how  many  things  it  does 
with  its  wings  in  any  ten 
seconds,  and  does  consum- 
mately. The  mystery  of 
its  dart  remains  always  in- 
explicable to  me  ;  no  eye 
can  trace  the  bending  of 
bow  that  sends  that  living 
arrow. 

But  the  main  structure 
of  the  noble  weapon  we 
may  with  little  pains  un- 
derstand. 

72.  In  the  sections  a 
and  b  of  Fig.  5,  I  have 
only  represented  the  quills 
of  the  outer  part  of  the 
wing.  The  relation  of 
these,  and  of  the  inner 
quills,  to  the  bird's  body 
may  be  very  simply  shownc 
VB  Kg.  6  is  a  rude  sketch, 
j  typically  representing  the 
wing  of  any  bird,  but 
actually  founded  chiefly 
on  the  seagull's. 

It  is  broadly  composed 
of  two  fans,  a  and  b.  The  outmost  fan,  a,  is  carried  by  the 
bird's  hand  ;  of  which  I  rudely  sketch  the  contour  of  the  bones 
at  a.  The  innermost  fan,  b,  is  carried  by  the  bird's  fore-arm, 
from  wrist  to  elbow,  b. 

The  strong  humerus,  c,  corresponding  to  our  arm  from 


THE  SWALLOW. 


199 


shoulder  to  elbow,  has  command  of  the  whole  instrument. 
No  feathers  are  attached  to  this  bone  ;  but  covering  and  pro- 
tecting ones  are  set  in  the  skin  of  it,  completely  filling,  when 
the  active  wing  is  open,  the  space  between  it  and  the  body. 
But  the  plumes  of  the  two  great  fans,  a  and  b,  are  set  into  the 
bones ;  in  Fig.  8,  farther  on,  are  shown  the  projecting  knobs 
on  the  main  arm  bone,  set  for  the  reception  of  the  quills, 
which  make  it  look  like  the  club  of  Hercules.  The  connection 
of  the  still  more  powerful  quills  of  the  outer  fan  with  the 
bones  of  the  hand  is  quite  beyond  all  my  poor  anatomical 
perceptions,  and,  happily  for  me,  also  beyond  needs  of  artistic 
investigation. 


Fig.  7. 


73.  The  feathers  of  the  fan  a  are  called  the  primaries.  Those 
of  the  fan  b,  secondaries.  Effective  actions  of  flight,  whether 
for  support  or  forward  motion,  are,  I  believe,  all  executed  with 
the  primaries,  every  one  of  which  may  be  briefly  described  as 
the  strongest  scymitar  that  can  be  made  of  quill  substance ; 
flexible  within  limits,  and  elastic  at  its  edges — carried  by  an 
elastic  central  shaft — twisted  like  a  windmill  sail — striking 
with  the  flat,  and  recovering  with  the  edge. 

The  secondary  feathers  are  more  rounded  at  the  ends,  and 
frequently  notched  ;  their  curvature  is  reversed  to  that  of  the 
primaries ;  they  are  arranged,  when  expanded,  somewhat  in 
the  shape  of  a  shallow  cup,  with  the  hollow  of  it  downwards, 
holding  the  air  therefore,  and  aiding  in  all  the  pause  and 
buoyancy  of  flight,  but  little  in  the  activity  of  it.  Essentially 
they  are  the  brooding  and  covering  feathers  of  the  wing  ;  ex- 


200 


LOVE'S  ME  IN  IE. 


quisitely  beautiful — as  far  as  I  have  yet  seen,  most  beautiful 
— in  the  bird  whose  brooding  is  of  most  use  to  us  ;  and  which 
has  become  the  image  of  all  tenderness.  "How  often  would 
I  have  gathered  thy  children  .  .  .  and  ye  would  not." 

74.  Over  these  two  chief  masses  of  the  plume  are  set  others 
which  partly  complete  their  power,  partly  adorn  and  protect 


Fig.  8. 


them  ;  but  of  these  I  can  take  no  notice  at  present.  All  that 
I  want  you  to  understand  is  the  action  of  the  two  main  masses, 
as  the  wing  is  opened  and  closed. 

Fig.  7  roughly  represents  the  upper  surface  of  the  main 
feathers  of  the  wing  closed.  The  secondaries  are  folded  over 
the  primaries ;  and  the  primaries  shut  up  close,  with  their 


THE  SWALLOW. 


201 


outer  edges  parallel,  or  nearly  so.  Fig.  8  roughly  shows  the 
outline  of  the  bones,  in  this  position,  of  one  of  the  larger 
pigeons.* 

75.  Then  Fig.  9  is  (always  sketched  in  the  roughest  way) 
the  outer,  Fig.  10  the  inner,  surface  of  a  seagull's  wing  in  this 
position.  Next,  Fig.  11  showrs  the  tops  of  the  four  lowest 
feathers  in  Fig.  9,  in  mere  outline  ;  a  separate  (pulled  off,  so 
that  they  can  be  set  side  by  side),  b  shut  up  close  in  the  folded 
wing,  c  opened  in  the  spread  wing. 


Fig.  9. 


76.  And  now,  if  you  will  yourselves  watch  a  few  birds  in 
flight,  or  opening  and  closing  their  wings  to  prune  them,  you 
will  soon  know  as  much  as  is  needful  for  our  art  purposes  ; 
and,  which  is  far  more  desirable,  feel  how  very  little  we  know, 
to  any  purpose,  of  even  the  familiar  creatures  that  are  our 
companions. 

Even  what  we  have  seen  to-day  f  is  more  than  appears  to 

-  I  find  even  this  mere  outline  of  anatomical  structure  so  interferes 
with  the  temper  in  which  I  wish  my  readers  to  think,  that  I  shall  with- 
draw it  in  my  complete  edition. 

f  Large  and  somewhat  carefully  painted  diagrams  were  shown  at  the 
lecture,  which  I  cannot  engrave  but  for  my  complete  edition. 


202 


LOVE'S  MEWIE. 


have  been  noticed  by  the  most  careful  painters  of  the  great 
schools  ;  and  you  will  continually  fancy  that  I  am  inconsistent 
with  myself  in  pressing  you  to  learn,  better  than  they,  the 
anatomy  of  birds,  while  I  violently  and  constantly  urge  you 
to  refuse  the  knowledge  of  the  anatomy  of  men.  But  you 
will  find,  as  my  system  developes  itself,  that  it  is  absolutely 
consistent  throughout.  I  don't  mean,  by  telling  you  not  to 
study  human  anatomy,  that  you  are  not  to  know  how  many 
fingers  and  toes  you  have,  nor  how  you  can  grasp  and  walk 


Fig.  10. 


with  them  ;  and,  similarly,  when  you  look  at  a  bird,  I  wish 
you  to  know  how  many  claws  and  wing-feathers  it  has,  and 
how  it  grips  and  flies  with  them.  Of  the  bones,  in  either,  I 
shall  show  you  little ;  and  of  the  muscles,  nothing  but  what 
can  be  seen  in  the  living  creature,  nor,  often,  even  so  much. 

77.  And  accordingly,  when  I  now  show  you  this  sketch  of 
my  favourite  Holbein,  and  tell  you  that  it  is  entirely  disgrace- 
ful he  should  not  know  what  a  wing  was,  better, — I  don't 
mean  that  it  is  disgraceful  he  should  not  know  the  anatomy 
of  it,  but  that  he  should  never  have  looked  at  it  to  see  how 
the  feathers  lie. 


THE  SWALLOW. 


203 


Now  Holbein  paints  men  gloriously,  but  never  looks  at 
birds ;  Gibbons,  the  woodcutter,  carves  birds,  but  can't  men  ; 
— of  the  two  faults  the  last  is  the  worst ;  but  the  right  is  in 


A  B 


Fig.  11. 


looting  at  the  whole  of  nature  in  due  comparison,  and  with 
universal  candour  and  tenderness. 

78.  At  the  whole  of  nature,  I  say,  not  at  super-nature — at 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


what  you  suppose  to  be  above  the  visible  nature  about  you. 
If  you  are  not  inclined  to  look  at  the  wings  of  birds,  which 
God  has  given  you  to  handle  and  to  see,  much  less  are  you  to 
contemplate,  or  draw  imaginations  of,  the  wings  of  angels, 
which  you  can't  see.  Know  your  own  world  first — not  deny- 
ing any  other,  but  being  quite  sure  that  the  place  in  which 
you  are  now  put  is  the  place  with  which  you  are  now  con- 
cerned ;  and  that  it  will  be  wiser  in  you  to  think  the  gods 
themselves  may  appear  in  the  form  of  a  dove,  or  a  swallow, 
than  that,  by  false  theft  from  the  form  of  dove  or  swallow, 
you  can  represent  the  aspect  of  gods. 

79.  One  sweet  instance  of  such  simple  conception,  in  the 
end  of  the  Odyssey,  must  surely  recur  to  your  minds  in  con- 
nection with  our  subject  of  to-day,  but  you  may  not  have  no- 
ticed the  recurrent  manner  in  which  Homer  insists  on  the 
thought.  When  Ulysses  first  bends  and  strings  his  bow,  the 
vibration  of  the  chord  is  shrill,  "  like  the  note  of  a  swallow." 
A  poor  and  unwarlike  simile,  it  seems !  But  in  the  next 
book,  when  Ulysses  stands  with  his  bow  lifted,  and  Telem- 
achus  has  brought  the  lances,  and  laid  them  at  his  feet,  and 
Athena  comes  to  his  side  to  encourage  him, — do  you  recollect 
the  gist  of  her  speech  ?  "  You  fought,"  she  says,  "  nine  years 
for  the  sake  of  Helen,  and  for  another's  house  : — now,  re- 
turned, after  all  those  wanderings,  and  under  your  own  roof, 
for  it,  and  its  treasures,  will  you  not  fight,  then?"  And 
she  herself  flies  up  to  the  house-roof,  and  thence,  in  the  form 
of  the  swallow,  guides  the  arrows  of  vengeance  for  the  viola- 
tion of  the  sanctities  of  home. 

80.  To-day,  then,  I  believe  verily  for  the  first  time,  I  have 
been  able  to  put  before  you  some  means  of  guidance  to  un- 
derstand the  beauty  of  the  bird  which  lives  with  you  in  your 
own  houses,  and  which  purifies  for  you,  from  its  insect  pesti- 
lence, the  air  that  you  breathe.  Thus  the  sweet  domestic  thing 
has  done,  for  men,  at  least  these  four  thousand  years.  She 
has  been  their  companion,  not  of  the  home  merely,  but  of  the 
hearth,  and  the  threshold  ;  companion  only  endeared  by  de- 
parture, and  showing  better  her  loving-kindness  by  her  faith- 
ful return.    Type  sometimes  of  the  stranger,  she  has  softened 


THE  SWALLOW, 


205 


us  to  hospitality  ;  type  always  of  the  suppliant,  she  has  en- 
chanted ns  to  mercy  ;  and  in  her  feeble  presence,  the  coward- 
ice, or  the  wrath,  of  sacrilege  has  changed  into  the  fidelities  of 
sanctuary.  Herald  of  our  summer,  she  glances  through  our 
days  of  gladness  ;  numberer  of  our  years,  she  would  teach  us 
to  apply  our  hearts  to  wisdom  ;— and  yet,  so  little  have  we  re- 
garded her,  that  this  very  day,  scarcely  able  to  gather  from 
all  I  can  find  told  of  her  enough  to  explain  so  much  as  the 
unfolding  of  her  wings,  I  can  tell  you  nothing  of  her  life — 
nothing  of  her  journeying  :  I  cannot  learn  how  she  builds,  nor 
how  she  chooses  the  place  of  her  wandering,  nor  how  she 
traces  the  path  of  her  return.  Remaining  thus  blind  and 
careless  to  the  true  ministries  of  the  humble  creature  whom 
God  has  really  sent  to  serve  us,  we  in  our  pride,  thinking 
ourselves  surrounded  by  the  pursuivants  of  the  sky,  can  yet 
only  invest  them  with  majesty  by  giving  them  the  calm  of  the 
bird's  motion,  and  shade  of  the  bird's  plume  : — and  after  all,  it 
is  well  for  us,  if,  when  even  for  God's  best  mercies,  and  in  His 
temples  marble-built,  we  think  that,  "  with  angels  and  arch- 
angels, and  all  the  company  of  Heaven,  we  laud  and  magnify 
His  glorious  name  " — well  for  us,  if  our  attempt  be  not  only 
an  insult,  and  His  ears  open  rather  to  the  inarticulate  and  un- 
intended praise,  of  "  the  Swallow,  twittering  from  her  straw- 
built  shed." 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

AND 

TINTORET 

SEVENTH  OF  THE  COURSE  OF  LECTURES  ON  SCULPTURE, 
DELIVERED  AT  OXFORD,  1870-71. 


I  have  printed  this  Lecture  separately,  that  strangers  visiting 
the  Galleries  may  be  able  to  use  it  for  reference  to  the  draw- 
ings. But  they  must  observe  that  its  business  is  only  to 
point  out  what  is  to  be  blamed  in  Michael  Angelo,  and  that  it 
assumes  the  facts  of  his  power  to  be  generally  known.  Mr. 
Tyrwhitt's  statement  of  these,  in  his  "  Lectures  on  Christian 
Art,"  will  put  the  reader  into  possession  of  all  that  may  justly 
be  alleged  in  honour  of  him. 

Corpus  Gh mti  College,  Ut  May,  1872. 


THE  RELATION" 

BETWEEN 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTORET. 


The  Seventh  of  the  Course  of  Lectures  on  Sculpture 
delivered  at  Oxford,  1870-71. 


In  preceding  lectures  on  sculpture  I  have  included  references 
to  the  art  of  painting,  so  far  as  it  proposes  to  itself  the  same 
object  as  sculpture,  (idealization  of  form)  ;  and  I  have  chosen 
for  the  subject  of  our  closing  inquiry,  the  works  of  the  two 
masters  who  accomplished  or  implied  the  unity  of  these  arts. 
Tintoret  entirely  conceives  his  figures  as  solid  statues :  sees 
them  in  his  mind  on  every  side  ;  detaches  each  from  the  other 
by  imagined  air  and  light ;  and  foreshortens,  interposes,  or 
involves  them,  as  if  they  were  pieces  of  clay  in  his  hand.  On 
the  contrary,  Michael  Angelo  conceives  his  sculpture  partly 
as  if  it  were  painted  ;  and  using  (as  I  told  you  formerly)  his 
pen  like  a  chisel,  uses  also  his  chisel  like  a  pencil ;  is  some- 
times as  picturesque  as  Kembrandt,  and  sometimes  as  soft  as 
Correggio. 

It  is  of  him  chiefly  that  I  shall  speak  to-day  ;  both  because 
it  is  part  of  my  duty  to  the  strangers  here  present  to  indicate 
for  them  some  of  the  points  of  interest  in  the  drawings  form- 
ing part  of  the  University  collections  ;  but  still  more,  because 
I  must  not  allow  the  second  year  of  my  professorship  to  close, 
without  some  statement  of  the  mode  in  which  those  collec- 
tions may  be  useful  or  dangerous  to  my  pupils.  They  seem 
at  present  little  likely  to  be  either  ;  for  since  I  entered  on  my 


212 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


duties,  no  student  has  ever  asked  me  a  single  question  re- 
specting these  drawings,  or,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  taken  the 
slightest  interest  in  them. 

There  are  several  causes  for  this  which  might  be  obviated 
— there  is  one  which  cannot  be.  The  collection,  as  exhibited 
at  present,  includes  a  number  of  copies  which  mimic  in  vari- 
ously injurious  ways  the  characters  of  Michael  Angelo's  own 
work  ;  and  the  series,  except  as  material  for  reference,  can  be 
of  no  practical  service  until  these  are  withdrawn,  and  placed 
by  themselves.  It  includes,  besides,  a  number  of  original 
drawings  which  are  indeed  of  value  to  any  laborious  student 
of  Michael  Angelo's  life  and  temper  ;  but  which  owe  the 
greater  part  of  this  interest  to  their  being  executed  in  times 
of  sickness  or  indolence,  when  the  master,  however  strong, 
was  failing  in  his  purpose,  and,  however  diligent,  tired  of  his 
work.  It  will  be  enough  to  name,  as  an  example  of  this 
class,  the  sheet  of  studies  for  the  Medici  tombs,  No.  45,  in 
which  the  lowest  figure  is,  strictly  speaking,  neither  a  study 
nor  a  working  drawing,  but  has  either  been  scrawled  in  the 
feverish  languor  of  exhaustion,  which  cannot  escape  its  sub- 
ject of  thought  ;  or,  at  best,  in  idly  experimental  addition  of 
part  to  part,  beginning  with  the  head,  and  fitting  muscle  af- 
ter muscle,  and  bone  after  bone  to  it,  thinking  of  their  place 
only,  not  their  proportion,  till  the  head  is  only  about  one 
twentieth  part  of  the  height  of  the  body  :  finally,  something 
between  a  face  and  a  mask  is  blotted  in  the  upper  left-hand 
corner  of  the  paper,  indicative,  in  the  weakness  and  frightful- 
ness  of  it,  simply  of  mental  disorder  from  overwork ;  and 
there  are  several  others  of  this  kind,  among  even  the  better 
drawings  of  the  collection,  which  ought  never  to  be  exhibited 
to  the  general  public. 

It  would  be  easy,  howTever,  to  separate  these,  with  the  ac- 
knowledged copies,  from  the  rest ;  and,  doing  the  same  with 
the  drawings  of  Raphael,  among  which  a  larger  number  are  of 
true  value,  to  form  a  connected  series  of  deep  interest 
to  artists,  in  illustration  of  the  incipient  and  experimental 
methods  of  design  practised  by  each  master. 

I  say,  to  artists.    Incipient  methods  of  design  are  not,  and 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  T1NT0RET. 


213 


ought  not  to  be,  subjects  of  earnest  inquiry  to  other  people  : 
and  although  the  re-arrangement  of  the  drawings  would  ma- 
terially increase  the  chance  of  their  gaining  due  attention, 
there  is  a  final  and  fatal  reason  for  the  want  of  interest  in 
them  displayed  by  the  younger  students  ;— namely,  that  these 
designs  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  present  life,  with 
its  passions,  or  with  its  religion.  What  their  historic  value  is, 
and  relation  to  the  life  of  the  past,  I  will  endeavour,  so  far  as 
time  admits,  to  explain  to-day. 

The  course  of  Art  divides  itself  hitherto,  among  all  nations 
of  the  world  that  have  practised  it  successfully,  into  three 
great  periods. 

The  first,  that  in  which  their  conscience  is  undeveloped, 
and  their  condition  of  life  in  many  respects  savage  ;  but, 
nevertheless,  in  harmony  with  whatever  conscience  they  pos- 
sess. The  most  powerful  tribes,  in  this  stage  of  their  intel- 
lect, usually  live  by  rapine,  and  under  the  influence  of  vivid, 
but  contracted,  religious  imagination.  The  early  predatory 
activity  of  the  Normans,  and  the  confused  minglings  of  relig- 
ious subjects  with  scenes  of  hunting,  war,  and  vile  grotesque, 
in  their  first  art,  will  sufficiently  exemplify  this  state  of  a 
people  ;  having,  observe,  their  conscience  undeveloped,  but 
keeping  their  conduct  in  satisfied  harmony  with  it. 

The  second  stage  is  that  of  the  formation  of  conscience  by 
the  discovery  of  the  true  laws  of  social  order  and  personal 
virtue,  coupled  with  sincere  effort  to  live  by  such  laws  as  they 
are  discovered. 

All  the  Arts  advance  steadily  during  this  stage  of  national 
growTth,  and  are  lovely,  even  in  their  deficiencies,  as  the  buds 
of  flowers  are  lovely  by  their  vital  force,  swift  change,  and 
continent  beauty. 

The  third  stage  is  that  in  which  the  conscience  is  entirely 
formed,  and  the  nation,  finding  it  painful  to  live  in  obedience 
to  the  precepts  it  has  discovered,  looks  about  to  discover,  also, 
a  compromise  for  obedience  to  them.  In  this  condition  of 
mind  its  first  endeavour  is  nearly  always  to  make  its  religion 
pompous,  and  please  the  gods  by  giving  them  gifts  and  en- 
tertainments, in  which  it  may  piously  and  pleasurably  share 


214 


TEE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


itself ;  so  that  a  magnificent  display  of  the  powers  of  art  it 
has  gained  by  sincerity,  takes  place  for  a  few  years,  and  is 
then  followed  by  their  extinction,  rapid  and  complete  exactly 
in  the  degree  in  which  the  nation  resigns  itself  to  hypocrisy. 

The  works  of  Raphael,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Tintoret,  be- 
long to  this  period  of  compromise  in  the  career  of  the  great- 
est nation  of  the  world  ;  and  are  the  most  splendid  efforts  yet 
made  by  human  creatures  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  states 
with  beautiful  colours,  and  defend  the  doctrines  of  theology 
with  anatomical  designs. 

Farther,  and  as  an  universal  principle,  we  have  to  remem- 
ber that  the  Arts  express  not  only  the  moral  temper,  but  the 
scholarship,  of  their  age  ;  and  we  have  thus  to  study  them 
under  the  influence,  at  the  same  moment  of,  it  may  be,  de- 
clining probity,  and  advancing  science. 

Now  in  this  the  Arts  of  Northern  and  Southern  Europe 
stand  exactly  opposed.  The  Northern  temper  never  accepts 
the  Catholic  faith  with  force  such  as  it  reached  in  Italy.  Our 
sincerest  thirteenth  century  sculpture  is  cold  and  formal  com- 
pared with  that  of  the  Pisani ;  nor  can  any  Northern  poet  be 
set  for  an  instant  beside  Dante,  as  an  exponent  of  Catholic 
faith  :  on  the  contrary,  the  Northern  temper  accepts  the 
scholarship  of  the  Reformation  with  absolute  sincerity,  while 
the  Italians  seek  refuge  from  it  in  the  partly  scientific  and 
completely  lascivious  enthusiasms  of  literature  and  painting, 
renewed  under  classical  influence.  We  therefore,  in  the 
north,  produce  our  Shakespeare  and  Holbein ;  they  their 
Petrarch  and  Raphael.  And  it  is  nearly  impossible  for  you 
to  study  Shakespeare  or  Holbein  too  much,  or  Petrarch  and 
Raphael  too  little. 

I  do  not  say  this,  observe,  in  opposition  to  the  Cathohc 
faith,  or  to  any  other  faith,  but  only  to  the  attempts  to  sup- 
port whatsoever  the  faith  may  be,  by  ornament  or  eloquence, 
instead  of  action.  Every  man  who  honestly  accepts,  and  acts 
upon,  the  knowledge  granted  to  him  by  the  circumstances  of 
his  time,  has  the  faith  which  God  intends  him  to  have  ; — as- 
suredly a  good  one,  whatever  the  terms  or  form  of  it -- -  every 
man  who  dishonestly  refuses,  or  interestedly  disobeys  the 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTORET.  215 


knowledge  open  to  him,  holds  a  faith  which  God  does  not 
mean  him  to  hold,  and  therefore  a  bad  one,  however  beauti- 
ful or  traditionally  respectable. 

Do  not,  therefore,  I  entreat  you,  think  that  I  speak  with 
any  purpose  of  defending  one  system  of  theology  against 
another  ;  least  of  all,  reformed  against  Catholic  theology. 
There  probably  never  was  a  system  of  religion  so  destructive 
to  the  loveliest  arts  and  the  loveliest  virtues  of  men,  as  the 
modern  Protestantism,  which  consists  in  an  assured  belief  in 
the  Divine  forgiveness  of  all  your  sins,  and  the  Divine  correct- 
ness of  all  your  opinions.  But  in  their  first  searching  and 
sincere  activities,  the  doctrines  of  the  Keformation  produced 
the  most  instructive  art,  and  the  grandest  literature,  yet  given 
to  the  world  ;  while  Italy,  in  her  interested  resistance  to  those 
doctrines,  polluted  and  exhausted  the  arts  she  already  pos- 
sessed. Her  iridescence  of  dying  statesmanship — her  magnif- 
icence of  hollow  piety,  were  represented  in  the  arts  of  Venice 
and  Florence  by  two  mighty  men  on  either  side — Titian 
and  Tin  tore  t, — Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael.  Of  the  calm 
and  brave  statesmanship,  the  modest  and  faithful  religion, 
which  had  been  her  strength,  I  am  content  to  name  one  chief 
representative  artist  at  Venice,  John  Bellini. 

Let  me  nowT  map  out  for  you  roughly,  the  chronological  re- 
lations of  these  five  men.  It  is  impossible  to  remember  the 
minor  years,  in  dates  ;  I  will  give  you  them  broadly  in  decades, 
and  you  can  add  what  finesse  afterwards  you  like. 

Recollect,  first,  the  great  year  1480.  Twice  four's  eight— 
you  can't  mistake  it.  In  that  year  Michael  Angelo  was  five 
years  old ;  Titian,  three  years  old ;  Raphael,  within  three  years 
of  being  born. 

So  see  how  easily  it  comes.  Michael  Angelo  five  years  old 
— and  you  divide  six  between  Titian  and  Raphael, — three  on 
each  side  of  your  standard  year,  1480. 

Then  add  to  1480,  forty  years — an  easy  number  to  recollect, 
surely  ;  and  you  get  the  exact  year  of  Raphael's  death,  1520. 

In  that  forty  years  all  the  new  effort,  and  deadly  catastro- 
phe took  place.    1480  to  1520. 

Now,  you  have  only  to  fasten  to  those  forty  years,  the  life 


21G 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


of  Bellini,  who  represents  the  best  art  before  them,  and  of 
Tintoret,  who  represents  the  best  art  after  them. 

I  cannot  fit  you  these  on  with  a  quite  comfortable  exact- 
ness, but  with  very  slight  inexactness  I  can  fit  them  firmly. 

John  Bellini  was  ninety  years  old  when  he  died.  He  lived 
fifty  years  before  the  great  forty  of  change,  and  he  saw  the 
forty,  and  died.  Then  Tintoret  is  bora  ;  lives  eighty  *  years 
after  the  forty,  and  closes,  in  dying,  the  sixteenth  century, 
and  the  great  arts  of  the  world. 

Those  are  the  dates,  roughly  ;  now  for  the  facts  connected 
with  them. 

John  Bellini  precedes  the  change,  meets,  and  resists  it  vic- 
toriously to  his  death. .  Nothing  of  flaw  or  failure  is  ever  to 
be  discerned  in  him. 

Then  Baphael,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Titian,  together,  bring 
about  the  deadly  change,  playing  into  each  other's  hands — 
Michael  Angelo  being  the  chief  captain  in  evil ;  Titian,  in  nat- 
ural force. 

Then  Tintoret,  himself  alone  nearly  as  strong  as  all  the 
three,  stands  up  for  a  last  fight,  for  Venice,  and  the  old  time. 
He  all  but  wins  it  at  first  ;  but  the  three  together  are  too 
strong  for  him.  Michael  Angelo  strikes  him  down  ;  and  the 
arts  are  ended.  "II  disegno  di  Michel  Agnolo."  That  fatal 
motto  was  his  death-warrant. 

And  now,  having  massed  out  my  subject,  I  can  clearly 
sketch  for  you  the  changes  that  took  place  from  Bellini, 
through  Michael  Angelo,  to  Tintoret. 

The  art  of  Bellini  is  centrally  represented  by  two  pictures  at 
Venice  :  one,  the  Madonna  in  the  Sacristy  of  the  Frari,  with 
two  saints  beside  her,  and  two  angels  at  her  feet  ;  the  second, 
the  Madonna  with  four  Saints,  over  the  second  altar  of  San 
Zaccaria. 

In  the  first  of  these,  the  figures  are  under  life  size,  and  it 
represents  the  most  perfect  kind  of  picture  for  rooms ;  in 

*  If  you  like  to  have  it  with  perfect  exactitude,  recollect  that 
Bellini  died  at  true  ninety, — Tintoret  at  eighty-two ;  that  Bellini's 
death  was  four  years  before  Raphael's  and  that  Tintoret  was  born  four 
years  before  Bellini's  death. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTORET.  217 


which,  since  it  is  intended  to  be  seen  close  to  the  spectator, 
every  right  kind  of  finish  possible  to  the  hand  may  be  wisely 
lavished  ;  yet  which  is  not  a  miniature,  nor  in  any  wise  petty, 
or  ignoble. 

In  the  second,  the  figures  are  of  life  size,  or  a  little  more, 
and  it  represents  the  class  of  great  pictures  in  which  the 
boldest  execution  is  used,  but  all  brought  to  entire  comple- 
tion. These  two,  having  every  quality  in  balance,  are  as  far 
as  my  present  knowledge  extends,  and  as  far  as  I  can  trust 
my  judgment,  the  two  best  pictures  in  the  world. 

Observe  respecting  them — 

First,  they  are  both  wrought  in  entirely  consistent  and  per- 
manent material.  The  gold  in  them  is  represented  by  paint- 
ing, not  laid  on  with  real  gold.  And  the  painting  is  so  se- 
cure, that  four  hundred  years  have  produced  on  it,  so  far  as  I 
can  see,  no  harmful  change  whatsoever,  of  an}7  kind. 

Secondly,  the  figures  in  both  are  in  perfect  peace.  No  ac- 
tion takes  place  except  that  the  little  angels  are  playing  on 
musical  instruments,  but  with  uninterrupted  and  effortless 
gesture,  as  in  a  dream.  A  choir  of  singing  angels  by  La  Rob- 
bia  or  Donatello  would  be  intent  on  their  music,  or  eagerly 
rapturous  in  it,  as  in  temporary  exertion  :  in  the  little  choirs 
of  cherubs  by  Luini  in  the  Adoration  of  the  Sheperds,  in  the 
Cathedral  of  Como,  we  even  feel  by  their  dutiful  anxiety  that 
there  might  be  danger  of  a  false  note  if  they  were  less  atten- 
tive. But  Bellini's  angels,  even  the  youngest,  sing  as  calmly 
as  the  Fates  weave. 

Let  me  at  once  point  out  to  you  that  this  calmness  is  the 
attribute  of  the  entirely  highest  class  of  art :  the  introduction 
of  strong  or  violently  emotional  incident  is  at  once  a  confes- 
sion of  inferiority. 

Those  are  the  two  first  attributes  of  the  best  art.  Faultless 
workmanship,  and  perfect  serenity ;  a  continuous,  not  mo- 
mentary, action, — or  entire  inaction.  You  are  to  be  interested 
in  the  living  creatures ;  not  in  what  is  happening  to  them. 

Then  the  third  attribute  of  the  best  art  is  that  it  compels 
you  to  think  of  the  spirit  of  the  creature,  and  therefore  of  its 
face,  more  than  of  its  body. 


218 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


And  the  fourth  is  that  in  the  face,  you  shall  be  led  to  see 
only  beauty  or  joy  ; — never  vileness,  vice,  or  pain. 

Those  are  the  four  essentials  of  the  greatest  art.  I  repeat 
them,  they  are  easily  learned. 

1.  Faultless  and  permanent  workmanship. 

2.  Serenity  in  state  or  action. 

3.  The  Face  principal,  not  the  body. 

4.  And  the  Face  free  from  either  vice  or  pain. 

It  is  not  possible,  of  course,  always  literally  to  observe  the 
second  condition,  that  there  shall  be  quiet  action  or  none  ; 
but  Bellini's  treatment  of  violence  in  action  you  may  see  ex- 
emplified in  a  notable  way  in  his  St.  Peter  Martyr.  The  sol- 
dier is  indeed  striking  the  sword  down  into  his  breast ;  but 
in  the  face  of  the  Saint  is  only  resignation,  and  faintness  of 
death,  not  pain — that  of  the  executioner  is  impassive ;  and, 
while  a  painter  of  the  later  schools  would  have  covered  breast 
and  sword  with  blood,  Bellini  allows  no  stain  of  it ;  but 
pleases  himself  by  the  most  elaborate  and  exquisite  painting 
of  a  soft  crimson  feather  in  the  executioner's  helmet. 

Now  the  changes  brought  about  by  Michael  Angelo — and 
permitted,  or  persisted  in  calamitously,  by  Tintoret — are  in 
the  four  points  these  : 

1st.  Bad  workmanship. 

The  greater  part  of  all  that  these  two  men  did  is  hastily 
and  incompletely  done  ;  and  all  that  they  did  on  a  large  scale 
in  colour  is  in  the  best  qualities  of  it  perished. 

2nd.  Violence  of  transitional  action. 

The  figures  flying, — falling, — striking,  or  biting.  Scenes  of 
pTuclgment, — battle, — martyrdom, — massacre  ;  anything  that 
fs  in  the  acme  of  instantaneous  interest  and  violent  gesture. 
They  cannot  any  more  trust  their  public  to  care  for  anything 
but  that. 

3rd.  Physical  instead  of  mental  interest.  The  body,  and  its 
anatomy,  made  the  entire  subject  of  interest :  the  face,  shad- 
owed, as  in  the  Puke  Lorenzo,*  unfinished,  as  in  the  Twilight, 

*  Julian,  rather.  See  Mr.  Tyrwhitt's  notice  of  the  lately  discovered 
error,  in  his  Lectures  on  Christian  Art. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTORET. 


219 


or  entirely  foreshortened,  backshortened,  and  despised,  among 
labyrinths  of  limbs,  and  mountains  of  sides  and  shoulders. 

4th.  Evil  chosen  rather  than  good.  On  the  face  itself,  in- 
stead of  joy  or  virtue,  at  the  best,  sadness,  probably  pride, 
often  sensuality,  and  always,  by  preference,  vice  or  agony  as 
the  subject  of  thought.  In  the  Last  Judgment  of  Michael 
Angelo,  and  the  Last  Judgment  of  Tintoret,  it  is  the  wrath  of 
the  Dies  Irse,  not  its  justice,  in  which  they  delight ;  and  their 
only  passionate  thought  of  the  coming  of  Christ  in  the  clouds, 
is  that  all  kindreds  of  the  earth  shall  wail  because  of  him. 

Those  are  the  four  great  changes  wrought  by  Michael  An- 
gelo.   I  repeat  them  : 

111  work  for  good. 

Tumult  for  Peace. 

The  Flesh  of  Man  for  his  Spirit. 

And  the  Curse  of  God  for  His  Blessing. 

Hitherto,  I  have  massed,  necessarily,  but  most  unjustly, 
Michael  Angelo  and  Tintoret  together,  because  of  their  com- 
mon relation  to  the  art  of  others.  I  shall  now  proceed  to 
distinguish  the  qualities  of  their  own.  And  first  as  to  the 
general  temper  of  the  two  men. 

Nearly  every  existing  work  by  Michael  Angelo  is  an  attempt 
to  execute  something  beyond  his  power,  coupled  with  a  fevered 
desire  that  his  power  may  be  acknowledged.  He  is  always 
matching  himself  either  against  the  Greeks  whom  he  cannot 
rival,  or  against  rivals  whom  he  cannot  forget.  He  is  proud, 
yet  not  proud  enough  to  be  at  peace ;  melancholy,  yet  not 
deeply  enough  to  be  raised  above  petty  pain  ;  and  strong  be- 
yond all  his  companion  workmen,  yet  never  strong  enough  to 
command  his  temper,  or  limit  his  aims. 

Tintoret,  on  the  contrary,  works  in  the  consciousness  of 
supreme  strength,  which  cannot  be  wounded  by  neglect,  and 
is  only  to  be  thwarted  by  time  and  space.  He  knows  pre- 
cisely all  that  art  can  accomplish  under  given  conditions ;  de- 
termines absolutely  how  much  of  what  can  be  done,  he  will 
himself  for  the  moment  choose  to  do  ;  and  fulfils  his  purpose 
with  as  much  ease  as  if,  through  his  human  body,  were  work- 
ing the  great  forces  of  nature.    Not  that  he  is  ever  satisfied 


220 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


with  what  lie  has  done,  as  vulgar  and  feeble  artists  are  satisfied. 
He  falls  short  of  his  ideal,  more  than  any  other  man ;  but  not 
more  than  is  necessary  ;  and  is  content  to  fall  short  of  it  to 
that  degree,  as  he  is  content  that  his  figures,  however  well 
painted,  do  not  move  nor  speak.  He  is  also  entirely  uncon- 
cerned respecting  the  satisfaction  of  the  public.  He  neither 
cares  to  display  his  strength  to  them,  nor  convey  his  ideas  to 
them  ;  when  he  finishes  his  work,  it  is  because  he  is  in  the 
humour  to  do  so  ;  and  the  sketch  which  a  meaner  painter 
would  have  left  incomplete  to  show  how  cleverly  it  was  begun, 
Tin  tore  t  simply  leaves  because  he  has  done  as  much  of  it  as 
he  likes. 

Both  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  are  thus,  in  the  most 
vital  of  all  points,  separate  from  the  great  Venetian.  They 
are  always  in  dramatic  attitudes,  and  always  appealing  to  the 
public  for  praise.  They  are  the  leading  athletes  in  the  gym- 
nasium of  the  arts ;  and  the  crowd  of  the  circus  cannot  take 
its  eyes  away  from  them,  while  the  Venetian  walks  or  rests 
with  the  simplicity  of  a  wild  animal ;  is  scarcely  noticed  in  his 
occasionally  swifter  motion  ;  when  he  springs,  it  is  to  please 
himself  ;  and  so  calmly,  that  no  one  thinks  of  estimating  the 
distance  covered. 

I  do  not  praise  him  wholly  in  this.  I  praise  him  only  for 
the  well-founded  pride,  infinitely  nobler  than  Michael  Ange- 
lo's.  You  do  not  hear  of  Tintoret's  putting  any  one  into  hell 
because  they  had  found  fault  with  his  work.  Tintoret  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  putting  a  dog  into  hell  for  laying  his 
paws  on  it.  But  he  is  to  be  blamed  in  this — that  he  thinks  as 
little  of  the  pleasure  of  the  public,  as  of  their  opinion.  A 
great  painter's  business  is  to  do  what  the  public  ask  of  him, 
in  the  way  that  shall  be  helpful  and  instructive  to  them.  His 
relation  to  them  is  exactly  that  of  a  tutor  to  a  child  ;  he  is  not 
to  defer  to  their  judgment,  but  he  is  carefully  to  form  it ; — 
not  to  consult  their  pleasure  for  his  own  sake,  but  to  consult 
it  much  for  theirs.  It  was  scarcely,  however,  possible  that 
this  should  be  the  case  between  Tintoret  and  his  Venetians  ; 
he  could  not  paint  for  the  people,  and  in  some  respects  he  was 
happily  protected  by  his  subordination  to  the  senate.  Raphael 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TIN  TO  RET. 


221 


and  Michael  Angelo  lived  in  a  world  of  court  intrigue,  in 
which  it  wTas  impossible  to  escape  petty  irritation,  or  refuse 
themselves  the  pleasure  of  mean  victory.  But  Tintoret  and 
Titian,  even  at  the  height  of  their  reputation,  practically  lived 
as  craftsmen  in  their  workshops,  and  sent  in  samples  of  their 
wTares,  not  to  be  praised  or  cavilled  at,  but  to  be  either  taken 
or  refused. 

I  can  clearly  and  adequately  set  before  you  these  relations 
between  the  great  painters  of  Venice  and  her  senate — rela- 
tions which,  in  monetary  matters,  are  entirely  right  and  exem- 
plary for  all  time— by  reading  to  you  two  decrees  of  the 
Senate  itself,  and  one  petition  to  it.  The  first  document  shall 
be  the  decree  of  the  Senate  for  giving  help  to  John  Bellini,  in 
finishing  the  compartments  of  the  great  Council  Chamber  ; 
granting  him  three  assistants — one  of  them  Victor  Carpaccio. 

The  decree,  first  referring  to  some  other  business,  closes  in 
these  terms  :  * 

"  There  having  moreover  offered  his  services  to  this  effect 
our  most  faithful  citizen,  Zuan  Beliin,  according  to  his  agree- 
ment employing  his  skill  and  all  speed  and  diligence  for  the 
completion  of  this  work  of  the  three  pictures  aforesaid,  pro- 
vided he  be  assisted  by  the  under  written  painters. 

"Be  it  therefore  put  to  the  ballot,  that  besides  the  afore- 
said Zuan  Beliin  in  person,  who  will  assume  the  superintend- 
ence of  this  work,  there  be  added  Master  Victor  Scarpaza, 
with  a  monthly  salary  of  five  ducats  ;  Master  Victor,  son  of 
the  late  Mathio,  at  four  ducats  per  month  ;  and  the  painter, 
Hieronymo,  at  two  ducats  per  month  ;  they  rendering  speedy 
and  diligent  assistance  to  the  aforesaid  Zuan  Beliin  for  the 
painting  of  the  pictures  aforesaid,  so  that  they  be  completed 
well  and  carefully  as  speedily  as  possible.  The  salaries  of  the 
which  three  master  painters  aforesaid,  with  the  costs  of  col- 
ours and  other  necessaries,  to  be  defrayed  by  our  Salt  office 
with  the  monies  of  the  great  chest. 

"It  being  expressly  declared  that  said  pensioned  painters 
be  tied  and  bound  to  work  constantly  and  daily,  so  that  said 

*  From  the  invaluable  series  of  documents  relating  to  Titian  and  Lis 
times,  extricated  by  Mr.  Rawdon  Brown  from  the  archives  of  Venice, 
and  arranged  and  translated  by  him. 


222 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


three  pictures  may  be  completed  a3  expeditiously  as  possible  ; 
the  artists  aforesaid  being  pensioned  at  the  good  pleasure  of 
this  Council. 


This  decree  is  the  more  interesting  to  us  now,  because  it  is 
the  precedent  to  which  Titian  himself  refers,  when  he  first  of- 
fers his  services  to  the  Senate. 

The  petition  which  I  am  about  to  read  to  you,  was  read  to 
the  Council  of  Ten,  on  the  last  day  of  May,  1513,  and  the 
original  draft  of  it  is  yet  preserved  in  the  Venice  archives. 

"  'Most  Illustrious  Council  of  Ten. 

"  'Most  Serene  Prince  and  most  Excellent  Lords. 

"  'I,  Titian  of  Serviete  de  Cadore,  having  from  my  boyhood 
upwards  set  myself  to  learn  the  art  of  painting,  not  so  much 
from  cupidity  of  gain  as  for  the  sake  of  endeavouring  to  ac- 
quire some  little  fame,  and  of  being  ranked  amongst  those 
who  now  profess  the  said  art. 

"  '  And  altho  heretofore,  and  likewise  at  this  present,  I  have 
been  earnestly  requested  by  the  Pope  and  other  potentates  to 
go  and  serve  them,  nevertheless,  being  anxious  as  your  Seren- 
ity's most  faithful  subject,  for  such  I  am,  to  leave  some  memo- 
rial in  this  famous  city  ;  my  determination  is,  should  the 
Signory  approve,  to  undertake,  so  long  as  I  live,  to  come  and 
paint  in  the  Grand  Council  with  my  ivhole  soul  and  ability  ; 
commencing,  provided  your  Serenity  think  of  it,  with  the  bat- 
tle-piece on  the  side  towards  the  "  Piazza,"  that  being  the 
most  difficult ;  nor  down  to  this  time  has  any  one  chosen  to 
assume  so  hard  a  task. 

"  CI,  most  excellent  Lords,  should  be  better  pleased  to  re- 
ceive as  recompense  for  the  work  to  be  done  by  me,  such 
acknowledgments  as  may  be  deemed  sufficient,  and  much 
less  ;  but  because,  as  already  stated  by  me,  I  care  solely  for  my 
honour,  and  mere  livelihood,  should  your  Serenity  approve, 
you  will  vouchsafe  to  grant  me  for  my  life,  the  next  brokers- 
patent  in  the  German  factory,*  by  whatever  means  it  may  be- 


"  Ayes. .  .  . 
"  Noes. . . . 
"  Neutrals 


23 
3 
0 


*  Fondaco  de  Tedesclii.  I  saw  the  last  wrecks  of  Giorgione's  frescoes 
©n  the  outside  of  it  in  1845. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTOHET. 


223 


come  vacant ;  notwithstanding  other  expectancies ;  with  the 
terms,  conditions,  obligations,  and  exemptions,  as  in  the  case 
of  Messer  Zuan  Bellini ;  besides  two  youths  whom  I  pui^ose 
bringing  with  me  as  assistants ;  they  to  be  paid  by  the  Salt 
office  ;  as  likewise  the  colours  and  all  other  requisites,  as  con- 
ceded a  few  months  ago  by  the  aforesaid  most  Illustrious 
Council  to  the  said  Messer  Zuan  ;  for  I  promise  to  do  such 
work  and  with  so  much  speed  and  excellency  as  shall  satisfy 
your  Lordships  to  whom  I  humbly  recommend  myself/  " 

"This  proposal,"  Mr.  Brown  tells  us,  "in  accordance  with 
the  petitions  presented  by  Gentil  Bellini  and  Alvise  Vivarini, 
was  immediately  put  to  the  ballot,"  and  carried  thus — the 
decision  of  the  Grand  Council,  in  favour  of  Titian,  being,  ob- 
serve, by  no  means  unanimous  : — 


Immediately  follows  on  the  acceptance  of  Titian's  services, 
this  practical  order  : 

"  We,  Chiefs  of  the  most  Illustrious  Council  of  Ten,  tell 
and  inform  you  Lords  Proveditors  for  the  State  ;  videlicet 
the  one  who  is  cashier  of  the  Great  Chest,  and  his  successors, 
that  for  the  execution  of  what  has  been  decreed  above  in  the 
most  Illustrious  Council  aforesaid,  you  do  have  prepared  all 
necessaries  for  the  above  written  Titian  according  to  his 
petition  and  demand,  and  as  observed  with  regard  to  Juan 
Bellini,  that  he  may  paint  ut  supra  ;  paying  from  month  to 
month  the  two  youths  whom  said  Titian  shall  present  to  you 
at  the  rate  of  four  ducats  each  per  month,  as  urged  by  him 
because  of  their  skill  and  sufficiency  in  said  art  of  painting, 
tho'  we  do  not  mean  the  payment  of  their  salary  to  commence 
until  they  begin  work ;  and  thus  will  you  do.  Given  on  the 
8th  of  June,  1513." 

That  is  the  way,  then,  great  workmen  wish  to  be  paid,  and 
that  is  the  way  wise  men  pay  them  for  their  work.  The  per- 
fect simplicity  of  such  patronage  leaves  the  painter  free  to  do 
precisely  what  he  thinks  best :  and  a  good  painter  always 
produces  his  best,  with  such  license. 


"Ayes. . . , 

"  Noes  

"  Neutrals 


10 
6 
0 


224 


THE  ItisL AVION  BETWEEN 


And  now  I  shall  take  the  four  conditions  of  change  in  sue 
cession,  and  examine  the  distinctions  between  the  two  mas- 
ters in  their  acceptance  of,  or  resistance  to,  them. 

I.  The  change  of  good  and  permanent  workmanship  forbad 
and  insecure  workmanship. 

You  have  often  heard  quoted  the  saying  of  Michael  Angelo, 
that  oil-painting  was  only  fit  for  women  and  children. 

He  said  so,  simply  because  he  had  neither  the  skill  to  lay  a 
single  touch  of  good  oil-painting,  nor  the  patience  to  over- 
come even  its  elementary  difficulties. 

And  it  is  one  of  my  reasons  for  the  choice  of  subject  in  this 
concluding  lecture  on  Sculpture,  that  I  may,  with  direct  ref- 
erence to  this  much  quoted  saying  of  Michael  Angelo,  make 
the  positive  statement  to  you,  that  oil-painting  is  the  Art  of 
arts ;  *  that  it  is  sculpture,  drawing,  and  music,  all  in  one,  in- 
volving the  technical  dexterities  of  those  three  several  arts ; 
that  is  to  say — the  decision  and  strength  of  the  stroke  of  the 
chisel ; — the  balanced  distribution  of  appliance  of  that  force 
necessary  for  gradation  in  light  and  shade  ; — and  the  pas- 
sionate felicity  of  rightly  multiplied  actions,  all  unerring, 
which  on  an  instrument  produce  right  sound,  and  on  canvas, 
living  colour.  There  is  no  other  human  skill  so  great  or  so 
wonderful  as  the 'skill  of  fine  oil-painting;  and  there  is  no 
other  art  whose  results  are  so  absolutely  permanent.  Music 
is  gone  as  soon  as  produced  —  marble  discolours,  —  fresco 
fades, — glass  darkens  or  decomposes — painting  alone,  well 
guarded,  is  practically  everlasting. 

Of  this  splendid  art  Michael  Angelo  understood  nothing ; 
he  understood  even  fresco,  imperfectly.  Tintoret  understood 
both  perfectly  ;  but  he — when  no  one  would  pay  for  his  col* 
ours,  (and  sometimes  nobody  would  even  give  him  space  of 
wall  to  paint  on) — used  cheap  blue  for  ultramarine ;  and  he 
worked  so  rapidly,  and  on  such  huge  spaces  of  canvas,  that 
between  damp  and  dry,  his  colours  must  go,  for  the  most 

*  I  beg  that  this  statement  may  be  observed  with  attention.  It  is  of 
great  importance,  as  in  opposition  to  the  views  usually  held  respecting 
the  grave  schools  of  painting. 


MICHAEL  ANGICLO  ANU  TINTORET. 


225 


part ;  but  any  complete  oil-painting  of  bis  stands  as  well  as 
one  of  Bellini's  own  :  while  Michael  Angelo's  fresco  is  defaced 
already  in  every  part  of  it,  and  Lionardo's  oil-painting  is  all 
either  gone  black,  or  gone  to  nothing. 

II.  Introduction  of  dramatic  interest  for  the  sake  of  excite- 
ment. I  have  already,  in  the  Stones  of  Venice,  illustrated 
Tintoret's  dramatic  power  at  so  great  length,  that  I  will  not, 
to-day,  make  any  farther  statement  to  justify  my  assertion 
that  it  is  as  much  beyond  Michael  Angelo's  as  Shakspeare's  is 
bej^ond  Milton's — and  somewhat  with  the  same  kind  of  differ- 
ence in  manner-  Neither  can  I  speak  to-day,  time  not  per- 
mitting me,  of  the  abuse  of  their  dramatic  power  by  Venetian 
or  Florentine  ;  one  thing  only  I  beg  you  to  note,  that  with 
full  half  of  his  strength,  Tintoret  remains  faithful  to  the 
serenity  of  the  past ;  and  the  examples  I  have  given  you  froni 
his  work  in  3,  50,*  are,  one,  of  the  most  splendid  drama,  and 
the  other  of  the  quietest  portraiture ,  ever  attained  by  the  arts 
of  the  middle  ages. 

Note  also  this  respecting  his  picture  of  the  Judgment,  that, 
in  spite  of  all  the  violence  and  wildness  of  the  imagined  scene, 
Tintoret  has  not  given,  so  far  as  I  remember,  the  spectacle  of 
any  one  soul  under  infliction  of  actual  pain.  In  all  previous 
representations  of  the  Last  Judgment  there  had  at  least  been 
one  division  of  the  picture  set  apart  for  the  representation  of 
torment ;  and  even  the  gentle  Angelico  shrinks  from  no  ortho- 
dox detail  in  this  respect :  but  Tintoret,  too  vivid  and  true  in 
imagination  to  be  able  to  endure  the  common  thoughts  of  hell, 
represents  indeed  the  wicked  in  ruin,  but  not  in  agony.  They 
are  swept  down  by  flood  and  whirlwind — the  place  of  them 
shall  know  them  no  more,  but  not  one  is  seen  in  more  than 
the  natural  pain  of  swift  and  irrevocable  death. 

IIL  I  pass  to  the  third  condition  ;  the  priority  of  flesh  to 
spirit,  and  of  the  body  to  the  face. 

*  The  upper  photograph  in  S.  50  is,  however,  not  taken  from  the 
great  Paradise,  which  is  in  too  dark  a  position  to  be  photographed,  buf 
from  a  study  of  it  existing  in  a  private  gallery,  and  every  way  inferior. 
I  have  vainly  tried  to  photograph  portions  of  the  picture  itself. 


226 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


In  this  alone,  of  the  four  innovations,  Michael  Angelo  and 
Tintoret  have  the  Greeks  with  them  ; — in  this,  alone,  have 
they  any  right  to  be  called  classical.  The  Greeks  gave  them 
no  excuse  for  bad  workmanship  ;  none  for  temporary  passion  ; 
none  for  the  preference  of  pain.  Only  in  the  honour  done  to 
the  body  may  be  alleged  for  them  the  authority  of  the  ancients. 

You  remember,  I  hope,  how  often  in  my  preceding  lectures 
I  had  to  insist  on  the  fact  that  Greek  sculpture  was  essentially 
a7rp6<TU)TTos  ; — independent,  not  only  of  the  expression,  but  even 
of  the  beauty  of  the  face.  Nay,  independent  of  its  being  so 
much  as  seen.  The  greater  number  of  the  finest  pieces  of  it 
which  remain  for  us  to  judge  by,  have  had  the  heads  broken 
away  ; — we  do  not  seriously  miss  them  either  from  the  Three 
Fates,  the  Ilissus,  or  the  Torso  of  the  Vatican.  The  face  of 
the  Theseus  is  so  far  destroyed  by  time  that  you  can  form 
little  conception  of  its  former  aspect.  But  it  is  otherwise  in 
Christian  sculpture.  Strike  the  head  off  even  the  rudest 
statue  in  the  porch  of  Chartres  and  you  will  greatly  miss  it — 
the  harm  would  be  still  worse  to  Donatello's  St.  George  : — 
and  if  you  take  the  heads  from  a  statue  of  Mino,  or  a  painting 
of  Angelico — very  little  but  drapery  will  be  left ; — drapery 
made  redundant  in  quantity  and  rigid  in  fold,  that  it  may 
conceal  the  forms,  and  give  a  proud  or  ascetic  reserve  to  the 
actions,  of  the  bodily  frame.  Bellini  and  his  school,  indeed, 
rejected  at  once  the  false  theory,  and  the  easy  mannerism,  of 
such  religious  design  ;  and  painted  the  body  without  fear  or 
reserve,  as,  in  its  subordination,  honourable  and  lovely.  But 
the  inner  heart  and  fire  of  it  are  by  them  always  first  thought 
of,  and  no  action  is  given  to  it  merely  to  show  its  beauty. 
Whereas  the  great  culminating  masters,  and  chiefly  of  these, 
Tintoret,  Correggio,  and  Michael  Angelo,  delight  in  the  body 
for  its  own  sake,  and  cast  it  into  every  conceivable  attitude, 
often  in  violation  of  all  natural  probability,  that  they  may  ex- 
hibit the  action  of  its  skeleton,  and  the  contours  of  its  flesh. 
The  movement  of  a  hand  with  Cima  or  Bellini  expresses  men- 
tal emotion  only  ;  but  the  clustering  and  twining  of  the  fin- 
gers of  Correggio's  St.  Catherine  is  enjoyed  by  the  painter 
just  in  the  same  way  as  he  would  enjoy  the  twining  of  the 


MICHAEL  ANQELO  AND  TINTORET.  227 


branches  of  a  graceful  plant,  and  he  compels  them  into  intrica- 
cies which  have  little  or  no  relation  to  St.  Catherine's  mind. 
In  the  two  drawings  of  Correggio,  (S.  13  and  14,)  it  is  the 
rounding  of  limbs  and  softness  of  foot  resting  on  clouds  which 
are  principally  thought  of  in  the  form  of  the  Madonna  ;  and  the 
countenance  of  St.  John  is  foreshortened  into  a  section,  that  full 
prominence  may  be  given  to  the  muscles  of  his  arms  and  breast. 

So  in  Tintoret's  drawing  of  the  Graces  (S.  22),  he  has  entirely 
neglected  the  individual  character  of  the  Goddesses,  and  been 
content  to  indicate  it  merely  by  attributes  of  dice  or  flower, 
so  only  that  he  may  sufficiently  display  varieties  of  contour  in 
thigh  and  shoulder. 

Thus  far  then,  the  Greeks,  Correggio,  Michael  Angelo, 
Raphael,  in  his  latter  design,  and  Tintoret,  in  his  scenic  de- 
sign, (as  opposed  to  portraiture)  are  at  one.  But  the  Greeks, 
Correggio,  and  Tintoret,  are  also  together  in  this  farther  point ; 
that  they  all  draw  the  body  for  true  delight  in  it,  and  with 
knowledge  of  it  living  ;  while  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael 
draw  the  body  for  vanity,  and  from  knowledge  of  it  dead. 

The  Venus  of  Melos, — Correggio's  Venus,  (with  Mercury 
teaching  Cupid  to  read), — and  Tintoret's  Graces,  have  the 
forms  which  their  designers  truly  liked  to  see  in  women. 
They  may  have  been  wrong  or  right  in  liking  those  forms,  but 
they  carved  and  painted  them  for  their  pleasure,  not  for  vanity. 

But  the  form  of  Michael  Angelo's  Night  is  not  one  which 
he  delighted  to  see  in  women.  He  gave  it  her,  because  he 
thought  it  was  fine,  and  that  he  would  be  admired  for  reach- 
ing so  lofty  an  ideal.* 

Again.  The  Greeks,  Correggio,  and  Tintoret,  learn  the 
body  from  the  living  body,  and  delight  in  its  breath,  colour, 
and  motion,  f 

*  He  had,  indeed,  other  and  more  solemn  thoughts  of  the  Night  than 
Correggio  ;  and  these  he  tried  to  express  by  distorting  form,  and  mak- 
ing her  partly  Medusa-like.  In  this  lecture,  as  above  stated,  I  am  only 
dwelling  on  points  hitherto  unnoticed  of  dangerous  evil  in  the  too  much 
admired  master. 

f  Tintoret  dissected,  and  used  clay  models,  in  the  true  academical 
manner,  and  produced  academical  results  thereby  ;  but  all  his  fine  work 
is  done  from  life,  like  that  of  the  Greeks. 


228 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  learned  it  essentially  from  the 
corpse,  and  had  no  delight  in  it  whatever,  but  great  pride  in 
showing  that  they  knew  all  its  mechanism  ;  they  therefore  sac- 
rifice its  colours,  and  insist  on  its  muscles,  and  surrender  the 
breath  and  fire  of  it,  for  what  is — not  merely  carnal, — but  os- 
seous, knowing  that  for  one  person  who  can  recognize  the 
loveliness  of  a  look,  or  the  purity  of  a  colour,  there  are  a  hun- 
dred who  can  calculate  the  length  of  a  bone. 

The  boy  with  the  doves,  in  Raphael's  cartoon  of  the  Beauti- 
ful Gate  of  the  Temple,  is  not  a  child  running,  but  a  surgical 
diagram  of  a  child  in  a  running  posture. 

Farther,  when  the  Greeks,  Gorreggio,  and  Tintoret,  draw 
the  body  active,  it  is  because  they  rejoice  in  its  force,  and 
when  they  draw  it  inactive,  it  is  because  they  rejoice  in  its  re- 
pose. But  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael  invent  for  it  ingen- 
ious mechanical  motion,  because  they  think  it  uninteresting 
when  it  is  quiet,  and  cannot,  in  their  pictures,  endure  any 
person's  being  simple-minded  enough  to  stand  upon  both  his 
legs  at  once,  nor  venture  to  imagine  any  one's  being  clear 
enough  in  his  language  to  make  himself  intelligible  without 
pointing. 

In  all  these  conditions,  the  Greek  and  Venetian  treatment 
of  the  body  is  faithful,  modest,  and  natural ;  but  Michael  An- 
gelo's  dishonest,  insolent,  and  artificial. 

But  between  him  and  Tintoret  there  is  a  separation  deeper 
than  all  these,  when  we  examine  their  treatment  of  the  face. 
Michael  Angelo's  vanity  of  surgical  science  rendered  it  impos- 
sible for  him  ever  to  treat  the  body  as  well  as  the  Greeks 
treated  it ;  but  it  left  him  wholly  at  liberty  to  treat  the  face  as 
ill ;  and  he  did  :  and  in  some  respects  very  curiously  worse. 

The  Greeks  had,  in  all  their  work,  one  type  of  face  for  beau- 
tiful and  honourable  persons  ;  and  another,  much  contrary  to 
it,  for  dishonourable  ones  ;  and  they  were  continually  setting 
these  in  opposition.  Their  type  of  beauty  lay  chiefly  in  the 
undisturbed  peace  and  simplicity  of  all  contours ;  in  full 
roundness  of  chin  ;  in  perfect  formation  of  the  lips,  showing 
neither  pride  nor  care  ;  and,  most  of  ail,  in  a  straight  and  firm 
line  from  the  brow  to  the  end  of  the  nose. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TIN  TO  RET.  223 


The  Greek  type  of  dishonourable  persons,  especially  satyrs, 
fauns,  and  sensual  powers,  consisted  in  irregular  excrescence 
and  decrement  of  features,  especially  in  flatness  of  the  upper 
part  of  the  nose,  and  projection  of  the  end  of  it  into  a  blunt 
knob. 

By  the  most  grotesque  fatality,  as  if  the  personal  bodily  in- 
jury he  had  himself  received  had  passed  with  a  sickly  echo 
into  his  mind  also,  Michael  Angelo  is  always  dwelling  on  this 
satyric  form  of  countenance; — sometimes  violently  carica- 
tures it,  but  never  can  help  drawing  it  ;  and  all  the  best 
profiles  in  this  collection  at  Oxford  have  what  Mr.  Robinson 
calls  a  "nez  retrousse  ;"  but  what  is,  in  reality,  the  nose  of 
the  Greek  Bacchic  mask,  treated  as  a  dignified  feature. 

For  the  sake  of  readers  who  cannot  examine  the  drawings 
themselves,  and  lest  I  should  be  thought  to  have  exaggerated 
in  any  wise  the  statement  of  this  character,  I  quote  Mr.  Rob- 
inson's description  of  the  head,  No.  9 — a  celebrated  and  en- 
tirely authentic  drawing, — (on  which,  I  regret  to  say,  my  own 
pencil  comment  in  passing  is  merely  "  brutal  lower  lip,  and 
broken  nose  :  ") — 

"  This  admirable  study  was  probably  made  from  nature,  ad- 
ditional character  and  more  powerful  expression  having  been 
given  to  it  by  a  slight  exaggeration  of  details,  bordering  on 
caricature  (observe  the  protruding  lower  lip,  '  nez  retrousse/ 
and  overhanging  forehead).  The  head,  in  profile,  turned  to 
the  right,  is  proudly  planted  on  a  massive  neck  and  shoulders, 
and  the  short  tufted  hair  stands  up  erect.  The  expression  is 
that  of  fierce,  insolent  self-confidence  and  malevolence  ;  it  is 
engraved  in  facsimile  in  Ottley's  '  Italian  School  of  Design,' 
and  it  is  described  in  that  work  p.  33,  as  '  Finely  expressive 
of  scornfulness  and  pride,  and  evidently  a  study  from  nature.' 

"Michel  Angelo  has  made  use  of  the  same  ferocious-looking 
model  on  other  occasions — see  an  instance  in  the  well-known 
if  Head  of  Satan  \  engraved  in  Woodburn's  Lawrence  Gallery 
(No.  16),  and  now  in  the  Malcolm  Collection. 

"  The  study  on  the  reverse  of  the  leaf  is  more  slightly  ex- 
ecuted ;  it  represents  a  man  of  powerful  frame,  carrying  a  hog 
or  boar  in  his  arms  before  him,  the  upper  part  of  his  body 
thrown  back  to  balance  the  weight,  his  head  hidden  by  that 
of  the  animal,  which  rests  on  the  man's  right  shoulder. 


230 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


"The  power  displayed  in  every  line  and  touch  of  these 
drawings  is  inimitable — the  head  was  in  truth  one  of  the 
'teste  divine/  and  the  hand  which  executed  it  the  'niano  ter- 
ribile/  so  enthusiastically  alluded  to  by  Vasari." 

Passing,  for  the  moment,  by  No.  10,  a  "  young  woman  of 
majestic  character,  marked  by  a  certain  expression  of  brood- 
ing melancholy,"  and  "wearing  on  her  head  a  fantastic  cap  or 
turban;" — by  No.  11,  a  bearded  man,  "  wearing  a  conical 
Phrygian  cap,  his  mouth  wide  open,"  and  his  expression  "  ob- 
streperously animated  ;" — and  by  No.  12,  "a  middle-aged  or 
old  man,  with  a  snub  nose,  high  forehead,  and  thin,  scrubby 
hair,"  we  will  go  on  to  the  fairer  examples  of  Divine  heads  in 
No.  32. 

"This  splendid  sheet  of  studies  is  probably  one  of  the 
'  carte  stupendissime  di  teste  divine/  which  Vasari  says  (Vita, 
p.  272)  Michel  Angelo  executed,  as  presents  or  lessons  for  his 
artistic  friends.  Not  improbably  it  is  actually  one  of  those 
made  for  his  friend  Tommaso  dei  Cavalieri,  who,  when  young, 
was  desirous  of  learning  to  draw." 

But  it  is  one  of  the  chief  misfortunes  affecting  Michael  An- 
gelo's  reputation,  that  his  ostentatious  display  of  strength  and 
science  has  a  natural  attraction  for  comparatively  weak  and 
pedantic  persons.  And  this  sheet  of  Vasari's  "teste  divine  " 
contains,  in  fact,  not  a  single  drawing  of  high  quality — only 
one  of  moderate  agreeableness,  and  two  caricatured  heads, 
one  of  a  s^tyr  with  hair  like  the  fur  of  animals,  and  one  of  a 
monstrous  and  sensual  face,  such  as  could  only  have  occurred 
to  the  sculptor  in  a  fatigued  dream,  and  which  in  my  own 
notes  I  have  classed  with  the  vile  face  in  No.  45. 

Keturning,  however,  to  the  divine  heads  above  it,  I  wish 
you  to  note  "the  most  conspicuous  and  important  of  all,"  a 
study  for  one  of  the  Genii  behind  the  Sibylla  Libyca.  This 
Genius,  like  the  young  woman  of  a  majestic  character,  and 
the  man  with  his  mouth  open,  wears  a  cap,  or  turban  ;  oppo- 
site to  him  in  the  sheet,  is  a  female  in  profile,  "  wearing  a  hood 
of  massive  drapery."    And,  when  once  your  attention  is  di- 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTORET. 


231 


rectecl  to  this  point,  you  will  perhaps  be  surprised  to  find 
how  many  of  Michael  Angelo's  figures,  intended  to  be  sub- 
lime, have  their  heads  bandaged.  If  you  have  been  a  student 
of  Michael  Angelo  chiefly,  you  may  easily  have  vitiated  your 
taste  to  the  extent  of  thinking  that  this  is  a  dignified  costume  ; 
but  if  3rou  study  Greek  work,  instead,  you  will  find  that  noth- 
ing is  more  important  in  the  system  of  it  than  a  finished  dis- 
position of  the  hair  ;  and  as  soon  as  you  acquaint  yourself  with 
the  execution  of  carved  marbles  generally,  you  will  perceive 
these  massy  fillets  to  be  merely  a  cheap  means  of  getting  over 
a  difficulty  too  great  for  Michael  Angelo's  patience,  and  too 
exigent  for  his  invention.  They  are  not  sublime  arrangements, 
but  economies  of  labour,  and  reliefs  from  the  necessity  of  de- 
sign ;  and  if  you  had  proposed  to  the  sculptor  of  the  Venus 
of  Melos,  or  of  the  Jupiter  of  Olympia,  to  bind  the  ambrosial 
locks  up  in  towels,  you  would  most  likely  have  been  instantly 
bound,  yourself ;  and  sent  to  the  nearest  temple  of  JEscula- 
pius. 

I  need  not,  surely,  tell  you, — I  need  only  remind, — how  in 
all  these  points,  the  Venetians  and  Correggio  reverse  Michael 
Angelo's  evil,  and  vanquish  him  in  good  ;  how  they  refuse 
caricature,  rejoice  in  beauty,  and  thirst  for  opportunity  of  toil. 
The  waves  of  hair  in  a  single  figure  of  Tintoret's  (the  Mary 
Magdalen  of  the  Paradise)  contain  more  intellectual  design 
in  themselves  alone  than  all  the  folds  of  unseemly  linen  in  the 
Sistine  chapel  put  together. 

In  the  fourth  and  last  place,  as  Tintoret  does  not  sacrifice, 
except  as  he  is  forced  by  the  exigencies  of  display,  the  face  for 
the  body,  so  also  he  does  not  sacrifice  happiness  for  pain. 
The  chief  reason  why  we  all  know  the  "  Last  Judgment "  of 
Michael  Angelo,  and  not  the  " Paradise"  of  Tintoret,  is  the 
same  love  of  sensation  which  makes  us  read  the  Inferno  of 
Dante,  and  not  his  Paradise  ;  and  the  choice,  believe  me,  is 
our  fault,  not  his  :  some  farther  evil  influence  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  Michael  Angelo  has  invested  all  his  figures  with 
picturesque  and  palpable  elements  of  effect,  while  Tintoret 
has  only  made  them  lovely  in  themselves  and  has  been  con- 
tent that  they  should  deserve,  not  demand,  your  attention. 


232 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


You  are  accustomed  to  think  the  figures  of  Michael  Angela 
sublime — because  they  are  dark,  and  colossal,  and  involved, 
and  mysterious — because  in  a  word,  they  look  sometimes  like 
shadows,  and  sometimes  like  mountains,  and  sometimes  like 
spectres,  but  never  like  human  beings.  Believe  me,  yet  once 
more,  in  what  I  told  you  long  since — man  can  invent  nothing 
nobler  than  humanity.  He  cannot  raise  his  form  into  any- 
thing better  than  God  made  it,  by  giving  it  either  the  flight 
of  birds  or  strength  of  beasts,  by  enveloping  it  in  mist,  or 
heaping  it  into  multitude.  Your  pilgrim  must  look  like  a  pil- 
grim in  a  straw  hat,  or  you  will  not  make  him  into  one  with 
cockle  and  nimbus  ;  an  angel  must  look  like  an  angel  on  the 
ground,  as  well  as  in  the  air  ;  and  the  much-denounced  pre- 
Eaphaelite  faith  that  a  saint  cannot  look  saintly  unless  he  has 
thin  legs,  is  not  more  absurd  than  Michael  Angelo's,  that  a 
Sibyl  cannot  look  Sibylline  unless  she  has  thick  ones. 

All  that  shadowing,  storming,  and  coiling  of  his,  when  you 
look  into  it,  is  mere  stage  decoration,  and  that  of  a  vulgar 
kind.  Light  is,  in  reality,  more  awful  than  darkness — modesty 
more  majestic  than  strength  ;  and  there  is  truer  sublimity  in 
the  sweet  joy  of  a  child,  or  the  sweet  virtue  of  a  maiden,  than 
in  the  strength  of  Antseus,  or  thunder-clouds  of  iEtna. 

Now,  though  in  nearly  all  his  greater  pictures,  Tintoret  is 
entirely  carried  away  by  his  sympathy  with  Michael  Angelo, 
and  conquers  him  in  his  own  field  ; — outflies  him  in  motion, 
outnumbers  him  in  multitude,  outwits  him  in  ismcj,  and  out* 
flames  him  in  rage, — he  can  be  just  as  gentle  as  he  is  strong : 
and  that  Paradise,  though  it  is  the  largest  picture  in  the 
world,  without  any  question,  is  also  the  thoughtfullest,  and 
most  precious. 

The  Thoughtfullest ! — it  would  be  saying  but  little,  as  far 
as  Michael  Angelo  is  concerned. 

For  consider  of  it  yourselves.  You  have  heard,  from  your 
youth  up,  (and  all  educated  persons  have  heard  for  three 
centuries),  of  this  Last  Judgment  of  his,  as  the  most  sublime 
picture  in  existence. 

The  subject  of  it  is  one  which  should  certainly  be  interest* 
ing  to  you,  in  one  of  two  ways. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TIN  TO  HE  T. 


233 


If  you  never  expect  to  be  judged  for  any  of  your  own 
doings,  and  the  tradition  of  the  coming  of  Christ  is  to  you  as 
an  idle  tale — still,  think  what  a  wonderful  tale  it  would  be, 
were  it  well  told.  You  are  at  liberty,  disbelieving  it,  to  range 
the  fields — Elysian  and  Tartarean,  of  all  imagination.  You 
may  play  with  it,  since  it  is  false  ;  and  what  a  play  would  it 
not  be,  well  written  ?  Do  you  think  the  tragedy,  or  the  mir- 
acle play,  or  the  infinitely  Divina  Commedia  of  the  Judgment 
of  the  astonished  living  who  were  dead  ; — the  undeceiving  of 
the  sight  of  every  human  soul,  understanding  in  an  instant  all 
the  shallow,  and  depth  of  past  life  and  future, — face  to  face 
with  both, — and  with  God  : — this  apocalypse  to  all  intellect, 
and  completion  to  all  passion,  this  minute  and  individual 
drama  of  the  perfected  history  of  separate  spirits,  and  of  their 
finally  accomplished  affections  ! — think  you,  I  say,  all  this  was 
well  told  by  mere  heaps  of  dark  bodies  curled  and  convulsed 
vol  space,  and  fall  as  of  a  crowd  from  a  scaffolding,  in  writhed 
concretions  of  muscular  pain  ? 

But  take  it  the  other  way.  Suppose  you  believe,  be  it 
never  so  dimly  or  feebly,  in  some  kind  of  Judgment  that  is  to 
be  ; — that  you  admit  even  the  faint  contingency  of  retribution, 
and  can  imagine,  with  vivacity  enough  to  fear,  that  in  this 
life,  at  all  events,  if  not  in  another — there  may  be  for  you  a 
Visitation  of  God,  and  a  questioning — What  hast  thou  done  ? 
The  picture,  if  it  is  a  good  one,  should  have  a  deeper  interest, 
surely  on  this  postulate  ?  Thrilling  enough,  as  a  mere  im- 
agination of  what  is  never  to  be — now,  as  a  conjecture  of  what 
is  to  be,  held  the  best  that  in  eighteen  centuries  of  Christian- 
ity has  for  men's  eyes  been  made  ;— Think  of  it  so ! 

And  then,  tell  me,  whether  you  yourselves,  or  any  one  you 
have  known,  did  ever  at  any  time  receive  from  this  picture 
any,  the  smallest  vital  thought,  warning,  quickening,  or  help  ? 
It  may  have  appalled,  or  impressed  you  for  a  time,  as  a  thun- 
der-cloud might :  but  has  it  ever  taught  you  anything — chas- 
tised in  you  anything — confirmed  a  purpose — fortified  a  re- 
sistance— purified  a  passion  ?  I  know  that  for  you,  it  has 
done  none  of  these  things  ;  and  I  know  also  that,  for  others, 
it  has  done  very  different  things.    In  every  vain  and  proud 


234 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


designer  who  has  since  lived,  that  dark  carnality  of  Michael 
Angelo's  has  fostered  insolent  science,  and  fleshly  imagination. 
Daubers  and  blockheads  think  themselves  painters,  and  aru 
received  by  the  public  as  such,  if  they  know  how  to  fore- 
shorten bones  and  decipher  entrails  ;  and  men  with  capacity 
of  art  either  shrink  away  (the  best  of  them  always  do)  into 
petty  felicities  and  innocencies  of  genre  painting — landscapes, 
cattle,  family  breakfasts,  village  schoolings,  and  the  like  ;  or 
else,  if  they  have  the  full  sensuous  art-faculty  that  would  have 
made  true  painters  of  them,  being  taught,  from  their  youth 
up,  to  look  for  and  learn  the  body  instead  of  the  spirit,  have 
learned  it,  and  taught  it  to  such  purpose,  that  at  this  hour, 
when  I  speak  to  you,  the  rooms  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Eng- 
land, receiving  also  what  of  best  can  be  sent  there  by  the 
masters  of  France,  contain  not  one  picture  honourable  to  the 
arts  of  their  age  ;  and  contain  many  which  are  shameful  in 
their  record  of  its  manners. 

Of  that,  hereafter.  I  will  close  to-day  by  giving  you  some 
brief  account  of  the  scheme  of  Tintoret's  Paradise,  in  justifi- 
cation of  my  assertion  that  it  is  the  thoughtfullest  as  well  as 
mightiest  picture  in  the  world. 

In  the  highest  centre  is  Christ,  leaning  on  the  globe  of  the 
earth,  which  is  of  dark  crystal.  Christ  is  crowned  with  a 
glory  as  of  the  sun,  and  all  the  picture  is  lighted  by  that  glory, 
descending  through  circle  beneath  circle  of  cloud,  and  of  fly 
ing  or  throned  spirits. 

The  Madonna,  beneath  Christ,  and  at  some  interval  from 
Him,  kneels  to  Him.  She  is  crowned  with  the  Seven  stars, 
and  kneels  on  a  cloud  of  angels,  whose  wings  change  into 
ruby  fire,  where  they  are  near  her. 

The  three  great  Archangels  meeting  from  three  sides,  fly 
towards  Christ.  Michael  delivers  up  his  scales  and  sword. 
He  is  followed  by  the  Thrones  and  Principalities  of  the 
Earth  ;  so  inscribed — Throni — Principatus.  The  Spirits  of 
the  Thrones  bear  scales  in  their  hands  ;  and  of  the  Prince- 
doms, shining  globes  :  beneath  the  wings  of  the  last  of  these 
are  the  four  great  teachers  and  lawgivers,  St.  Ambrose,  St. 
Jerome,  St.  Gregory,  St.  Augustine,  and  behind  St.  Augus- 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTORET. 


235 


tine  stands  his  mother,  watching  him,  her  chief  joy  in  Para- 
dise. 

Under  the  Thrones,  are  set  the  Apostles,  St.  Paul  separated 
a  little  from  the  rest,  and  put  lowest,  yet  principal ;  under  St. 
Paul,  is  St.  Christopher,  bearing  a  massive  globe,  with  a  cross 
upon  it :  but  to  mark  him  as  the  Christ-bearer,  since  here  in 
Paradise  he  cannot  have  the  child  on  his  shoulders,  Tintoret 
has  thrown  on  the  globe  a  flashing  stellar  reflection  of  the  sun 
round  the  head  of  Christ. 

All  this  side  of  the  picture  is  kept  in  glowing  colour, — the 
four  Doctors  of  the  church  have  golden  mitres  and  mantles  ; 
except  the  Cardinal,  St.  Jerome,  who  is  in  burning  scarlet,  his 
naked  breast  glowing,  warm  with  noble  life, — the  darker  red 
of  his  robe  relieved  against  a  white  glory. 

Opposite  to  Michael,  Gabriel  flies  toward  the  Madonna, 
having  in  his  hand  the  Annunciation  lily,  large,  and  triple- 
blossomed.  Above  him,  and  above  Michael,  equally,  extends 
a  cloud  of  white  angels,  inscribed  "  Serafini ; "  but  the  group 
following  Gabriel,  and  corresponding  to  the  Throni  following 
Michael,  is  inscribed  "  Cherubini."  Under  these  are  the  great 
prophets,  and  singers  and  foretellers  of  the  happiness  or  of 
the  sorrow  of  time.  David,  and  Solomon,  and  Isaiah,  and 
Amos  of  the  herdsmen.  David  has  a  colossal  golden  psaltery 
laid  horizontally  across  his  knees ; — two  angels  behind  him 
dictate  to  him  as  he  sings,  looking  up  towards  Christ ;  but 
one  strong  angel  sweeps  down  to  Solomon  from  among  the 
cherubs,  and  opens  a  book,  resting  it  on  the  head  of  Solomon, 
who  looks  down  earnestly,  unconscious  of  it ; — to  the  left  of 
David,  separate  from  the  group  of  prophets,  as  Paul  from  the 
apostles,  is  Moses,  dark-robed  ; — in  the  full  light,  withdrawn 
far  behind  him,  Abraham,  embracing  Isaac  with  his  left  arm,  and 
near  him,  pale  St.  Agnes.  In  front,  nearer,  dark  and  colossal, 
stands  the  glorious  figure  of  Santa  Giustina  of  Padua  ;  then  a 
little  subordinate  to  her,  St.  Catherine,  and,  far  on  the  left, 
and  high,  St.  Barbara  leaning  on  her  tower.  In  front,  nearer, 
flies  Raphael ;  and  under  him  is  the  four-square  group  of  the 
Evangelists.  Beneath  them,  on  the  left,  Noah  ;  on  the  right, 
Adam  and  Eve,  both  floating  unsupported  by  cloud  or  angel  • 


236 


THE  RELATION  BETWEEN 


Jsoah  buoyed  by  the  Ark,  which  he  holds  above  him,  and  it  is 
this  into  which  Solomon  gazes  down,  so  earnestly.  Eve's  face 
is,  perhaps,  the  most  beautiful  ever  painted  by  Tintoret — full 
in  light,  but  dark-eyed.  Adam  floats  beside  her,  his  figure  fad- 
ing into  a  winged  gloom,  edged  in  the  outline  of  fig-leaves. 
Far  down,  under  these,  central  in  the  lowest  part  of  the  pict- 
ure, rises  the  Angel  of  the  Sea,  praying  for  Venice  ;  for  Tin- 
toret conceives  his  Paradise  as  existing  now,  not  as  in  the  fu- 
ture. I  at  first  mistook  this  soft  Angel  of  the  Sea  for  the 
Magdalen,  for  he  is  sustained  by  other  three  angels  on  either 
side,  as  the  Magdalen  is,  in  designs  of  earlier  time,  because  of 
the  verse,  "  There  is  joy  in  the  presence  of  the  angels  over 
one  sinner  that  repenteth."  But  the  Magdalen  is  on  the 
right,  behind  St.  Monica  ;  and  on  the  same  side,  but  lowest 
of  all,  Rachel,  among  the  angels  of  her  children,  gathered  now 
again  to  her  for  ever. 

I  have  no  hesitation  in  asserting  this  picture  to  be  by  far 
the  most  precious  work  of  art  of  any  kind  whatsoever,  now 
existing  in  the  world  ;  and  it  is,  I  believe,  on  the  eve  of  final 
destruction  ;  for  it  is  said  that  the  angle  of  the  great  council- 
chamber  is  soon  to  be  rebuilt ;  and  that  process  will  involve 
the  destruction  of  the  picture  by  removal,  and,  far  more,  by 
repainting.  I  had  thought  of  making  some  effort  to  save  it 
by  an  appeal  in  London  to  persons  generally  interested  in  the 
arts  ;  but  the  recent  desolation  of  Paris  has  familiarized  us 
with  destruction,  and  I  have  no  doubt  the  answer  to  me 
would  be,  that  Venice  must  take  care  of  her  own.  But  re- 
member, at  least,  that  I  have  borne  witness  to  you  to-day  of 
the  treasures  that  we  forget,  while  we  amuse  ourselves  with 
the  poor  toys,  and  the  petty,  or  vile,  arts,  of  our  own  time. 

The  years  of  that  time  have  perhaps  come,  when  we  are  to 
be  taught  to  look  no  more  to  the  dreams  of  painters,  either 
for  knowledge  of  Judgment,  or  of  Paradise.  The  anger  of 
Heaven  will  not  longer,  I  think,  be  mocked  for  our  amuse- 
ment ;  and  perhaps  its  love  may  not  always  be  despised  by 
our  pride.  Believe  me,  all  the  arts,  and  all  the  treasures  of 
men,  are  fulfilled  and  preserved  to  them  only,  so  far  as  they 
have  chosen  first,  with  their  hearts,  not  the  curse  of  God,  but 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TINTORET.  237 

His  blessing.  Our  Earth  is  now  encumbered  with  ruin,  our 
Heaven  is  clouded  by  Death.  May  we  not  wisely  judge  our- 
selves in  some  things  now,  instead  of  amusing  ourselves  with 
the  painting  of  judgments  to  come  ? 


VAL  D'ARNO 

TEN  LECTURES 

ON 

THE  TUSCAN  ART  DIRECTLY  ANTECEDENT  TO  THE  FLOREN- 
TINE YEAR  OF  VICTORIES 

GIVEN  BEFORE  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD  IN  MICHAELMAS 
TERM,  1873 


VAL  D'ARNO 


LECTURE  I. 

NICHOLAS  THE  PISAN. 

1.  On  this  day,  of  this  month,  the  20th  of  October,  six 
hundred  and  twenty-three  years  ago,  the  merchants  and  trades- 
men of  Florence  met  before  the  church  of  Santa  Croce  ; 
marched  through  the  city  to  the  palace  of  their  Podesta ;  de- 
posed their  Podesta  ;  set  over  themselves,  in  his  place,  a 
knight  belonging  to  an  inferior  city  ;  called  him  "  Captain  of 
the  People  ; "  appointed  under  him  a  Signory  of  twelve  Ancients 
chosen  from  among  themselves  ;  hung  a  bell  for  him  on  the 
tower  of  the  Lion,  that  he  might  ring  it  at  need,  and  gave 
him  the  flag  of  Florence  to  bear,  half  white,  and  half  red. 

The  first  blow  struck  upon  the  bell  in  that  tower  of  the 
Lion  began  the  tolling  for  the  passing  away  of  the  feudal  sys- 
tem, and  began  the  joy-peal,  or  carillon,  for  whatever  deserves 
joy,  in  that  of  our  modern  liberties,  whether  of  action  or  of 
trade. 

2.  Within  the  space  of  our  Oxford  term  from  that  day, 
namely,  on  the  13th  of  December  in  the  same  year,  1250, 
died,  at  Ferentino,  in  Apulia,  the  second  Frederick,  Emperor 
of  Germany ;  the  second  also  of  the  two  great  lights  which 
in  his  lifetime,  according  to  Dante's  astronomy,  ruled  the 
world, — whose  light  being  quenched,  "the  land  which  was 
once  the  residence  of  courtesy  and  valour,  became  the  haunt 


242 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


of  all  men  who  are  ashamed  to  be  near  the  good,  or  to  speak 
to  them." 

u  In  sul  paese  chadice  e  po  riga 
solea  valore  e  cortesia  trovar  si 
prima  die  federigo  liavessi  briga, 
or  puo  sicuramente  indi  passarsi 
per  qualunclie  lasciassi  per  vergogna 
di  ragionar  co  buoni,  e  appressarsi. " 

Purg.,  Cant.  16. 

3.  The  " Paese  che  Adice  e  Po  riga"  is  of  course  Lorn- 
bardy;  and  might  have  been  enough  distinguished  by  the 
name  of  its  principal  river.  But  Dante  has  an  especial  reason 
for  naming  the  Adige.  It  is  always  by  the  valley  of  the  Adige 
that  the  power  of  the  German  Caesars  descends  on  Italy  ;  and 
that  battlemented  bridge,  which  doubtless  many  of  you  re- 
member, thrown  over  the  Adige  at  Verona,  was  so  built  that 
the  German  riders  might  have  secure  and  constant  access  to 
the  city.  In  which  city  they  had  their  first  stronghold  in 
Italy,  aided  therein  by  the  great  family  of  the  Montecchi, 
Montacutes,  Mont-aigu-s,  or  Montagues ;  lords,  so  called,  of 
the  mountain  peaks  ;  in  feud  with  the  family  of  the  Cappel- 
letti, — hatted,  or,  more  properly,  scarlet-hatted,  persons.  And 
this  accident  of  nomenclature,  assisted  by  your  present  famil- 
iar knowledge  of  the  real  contests  of  the  sharp  mountains 
with  the  flat  caps,  or  petasoi,  of  cloud,  (locally  giving  Mont 
Pilate  its  title,  "  Pileatus,")  may  in  many  points  curiously 
illustrate  for  you  that  contest  of  Frederick  the  Second  with 
Innocent  the  Fourth,  which  in  the  good '  of  it  and  the  evil 
alike,  represents  to  all  time  the  war  of  the  solid,  rational,  and 
earthly  authority  of  the  King,  and  State,  with  the  more  or 
less  spectral,  hooded,  imaginative,  and  nubiform  authority  of 
the  Pope,  and  Church. 

4.  It  will  be  desirable  also  that  you  clearly  learn  the  ma- 
terial relations,  governing  spiritual  ones, — as  of  the  Alps  to 
their  clouds,  so  of  the  plains  to  their  rivers.  And  of  these 
rivers,  chiefly  note  the  relation  to  each  other,  first,  of  the 
Adige  and  Po  ;  then  of  the  Arno  and  Tiber.    Far  the  Adige, 


NICHOLAS  THE  PISAN. 


243 


representing  among  the  rivers  and  fountains  of  waters  the 
channel  of  Imperial,  as  the  Tiber  of  the  Papal  power,  and  the 
strength  of  the  Coronet  being  founded  on  the  white  peaks 
that  look  down  upon  Hapsburg  and  Hohenzollern,  as  that  of 
the  Scarlet  Cap  in  the  marsh  of  the  Campagna,  "quo  tenuis 
in  sicco  aqua  destituisset,"  the  study  of  the  policies  and  arts 
of  the  cities  founded  in  the  two  great  valleys  of  Lombardy 
and  Tuscany,  so  far  as  they  were  affected  by  their  bias  to  the 
Emperor,  or  the  Church,  will  arrange  itself  in  your  minds  at 
once  in  a  symmetry  as  clear  as  it  will  be,  in  our  future  work, 
secure  and  suggestive. 

5.  "  Tenuis,  in  sicco."  How  literally  the  words  apply,  as 
to  the  native  streams,  so  to  the  early  states  or  establishings 
of  the  great  cities  of  the  world.  And  you  will  find  that  the 
policy  of  the  Coronet,  with  its  tower-building  ;  the  policy  of 
the  Hood,  with  its  dome-building  ;  and  the  policy  of  the  bare 
brow,  with  its  cot-building, — the  three  main  associations  of 
human  energy  to  which  wTe  owe  the  architecture  of  our  earth, 
(in  contradistinction  to  the  dens  and  caves  of  it,) — are  curi- 
ously and  eternally  governed  by  mental  laws,  corresponding 
to  the  physical  ones  which  are  ordained  for  the  rocks,  the 
clouds,  and  the  streams. 

The  tower,  which  many  of  you  so  well  remember  the  daily 
sight  of,  in  your  youth,  above  the  "winding  shore"  of 
Thames, — the  tower  upon  the  hill  of  London  ;  the  dome  which 
still  rises  above  its  foul  and  terrestrial  clouds  ;  and  the  walls 
of  this  city  itself,  which  has  been  "alma,"  nourishing  in  gen- 
tleness, to  the  youth  of  England,  because  defended  from  ex- 
ternal hostility  by  the  difficultly  fordable  streams  of  its  plain, 
may  perhaps,  in  a  few  years  more,  be  swept  away  as  heaps  of 
useless  stone  ;  but  the  rocks,  and  clouds,  and  rivers  of  our 
country  will  yet,  one  day,  restore  to  it  the  glory  of  law,  of 
religion,  and  of  life. 

6.  I  am  about  to  ask  you  to  read  the  hieroglyphs  upon  the 
architecture  of  a  dead  nation,  in  character  greatly  resembling 
our  own, — in  laws  and  in  commerce  greatly  influencing  our 
own  ; — in  arts,  still,  from  her  grave,  tu tress  of  the  present 
world.    I  know  that  it  will  be  expected  of  me  to  exj)lain  the 


244 


VAL  D'AENO. 


merits  of  her  arts,  without  reference  to  the  wisdom  of  her 
lawrs ;  and  to  describe  the  results  of  both,  without  investi- 
gating the  feelings  which  regulated  either.  I  cannot  do  this; 
but  I  will  at  once  end  these  necessarily  vague,  and  perhaps 
premature,  generalizations  ;  and  only  ask  you  to  study  some 
portions  of  the  life  and  work  of  two  men,  father  and  sou, 
citizens  of  the  city  in  which  the  energies  of  this  great  people 
were  at  first  concentrated  ;  and  to  deduce  from  that  study 
the  conclusions,  or  follow  out  the  inquiries,  which  it  may 
naturally  suggest. 

7.  It  is  the  modern  fashion  to  despise  Vasari.  He  is  indeed 
despicable,  whether  as  historian  or  critic, — not  least  in  his  ad- 
miration of  Michael  Angelo  ;  nevertheless,  he  records  the 
traditions  and  opinions  of  his  day  ;  and  these  you  must  accu- 
rately know,  before  you  can  wisely  correct.  I  will  take 
leave,  therefore,  to  begin  to-day  with  a  sentence  from  Vasari, 
wdiich  many  of  you  have  often  heard  quoted,  but  of  which, 
perhaps,  few  have  enough  observed  the  value. 

"  Niccola  Pisano  finding  himself  under  certain  Greek 
sculptors  who  were  carving  the  figures  and  other  intaglio 
ornaments  of  the  cathedral  of  Pisa,  and  of  the  temple  of  St. 
John,  and  there  being,  among  many  spoils  of  marbles, 
brought  by  the  Pisan  fleet,*  some  ancient  tombs,  there  was 
one  among  the  others  most  fair,  on  which  was  sculptured  the 
hunting  of  Meleager."  f 

Get  the  meaning  and  contents  of  this  passage  well  into 
your  minds.    In  the  gist  of  it,  it  is  true,  and  very  notable. 

8.  You  are  in  mid  thirteenth  century  ;  1200-1300.  The 
Greek  nation  has  been  dead  in  heart  upwards  of  a  thousand 
years  ;  its  religion  dead,  for  six  hundred.  But  through  the 
wreck  of  its  faith,  and  death  in  its  heart,  the  skill  of  its 
hands,  and  the  cunning  of  its  design,  instinctively  linger.  In 

*  u  Armata."    The  proper  word  for  a  land  army  is  "esercito." 

f  Vol.  i.,  p.  60,  of  Mrs.  Foster's  English  translation,  to  which  I  shall 
always  refer,  in  order  that  English  students  may  compare  the  context  if 
they  wish.  But  the  pieces  of  English  which  I  give  are  my  own  direct 
translation,  varying,  it  will  be  found,  often,  from  Mrs.  Foster's,  in  mi- 
nute, but  not  unimportant,  particulars. 


NICHOLAS  THE  PISAN. 


245 


the  centuries  of  Christian  power,  the  Christians  are  still 
unable  to  build  but  under  Greek  masters,  and  by  pillage  of 
Greek  shrines  ;  and  their  best  workman  is  only  an  apprentice 
to  the  '  Grseculi  esurientes '  who  are  carving  the  temple  of 
St  John. 

9.  Think  of  it.  Here  has  the  New  Testament  been  de- 
clared for  1200  years.  No  spirit  of  wisdom,  as  yet,  has  been 
given  to  its  workmen,  except  that  which  has  descended  from 
the  Mars  Hill  on  which  St.  Paul  stood  contemptuous  in  pity. 
No  Bezaleel  arises,  to  build  new  tabernacles,  unless  he  has 
been  taught  by  Daedalus. 

10.  It  is  necessary,  therefore,  for  you  first  to  know  pre- 
cisely the  manner  of  these  Greek  masters  in  their  decayed 
power ;  the  manner  which  Vasari  calls,  only  a  sentence  be- 
fore, "  That  old  Greek  manner,  blundering,  disproportioned," 
— Goffa,  e  sproporzionata. 

"Goffa,"  the  very  word  which  Michael  Angelo  uses  of 
Perugino.  Behold,  the  Christians  despising  the  Dunce  Greeks, 
as  the  Infidel  modernists  despise  the  Dunce  Christians.* 

11.  I  sketched  for  you,  when  I  was  last  at  Pisa,  a  few 
arches  of  the  apse  of  the  duomo,  and  a  small  portion  of  the 
sculpture  of  the  font  of  the  Temple  of  St.  John.  I  have 
placed  them  in  your  rudimentary  series,  as  examples  of 
"quella  vecchia  maniera  Greca,  goffa  e  sproporzionata. "  My 
own  judgment  respecting  them  is, — and  it  is  a  judgment 
founded  on  knowledge  which  you  may,  if  you  choose,  share 
with  me,  after  working  with  me, — that  no  architecture  on 
this  grand  scale,  so  delicately  skilful  in  execution,  or  so 
daintily  disposed  in  proportion,  exists  elsewhere  in  the  world. 

12.  Is  Vasari  entirely  wrong  then  ? 

No,  only  half  wrong,  but  very  fatally  half  wrong.  There 
are  Greeks,  and  Greeks. 

This  head  with  the  inlaid  dark  iris  in  its  eyes,  from  the 
font  of  St.  John,  is  as  pure  as  the  sculpture  of  early  Greece,  a 
hundred  years  before  Phidias  ;  and  it  is  so  delicate,  that  having 
drawn  with  equal  care  this  and  the  best  work  of  the  Lombardi 


*  Compare  "  Ariadne  Florentina,"  §  46. 


246 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


at  Venice  (in  the  church  of  the  Miracoli),  I  found  this  ta 
possess  the  more  subtle  qualities  of  design.  And  yet,  in  the 
cloisters  of  St.  John  Lateran  at  Rome,  you  have  Greek  work, 
if  not  contemporary  with  this  at  Pisa,  yet  occupying  a  paral- 
lel place  in  the  history  of  architecture,  which  is  abortive,  and 
monstrous  beyond  the  power  of  any  words  to  describe. 
Vasari  knew  no  difference  between  these  two  kinds  of  Greek 
work.  Nor  do  your  modern  architects.  To  discern  the  dif- 
ference between  the  sculpture  of  the  font  of  Pisa,  and  the  span- 
drils  of  the  Lateran  cloister,  requires  thorough  training  of 
the  hand  in  the  finest  methods  of  draughtsmanship  ;  and,  sec- 
ondly, trained  habit  of  reading  the  mythology  and  ethics  of 
design.  I  simply  assure  you  of  the  fact  at  present ;  and  if 
you  work,  you  may  have  sight  and  sense  of  it. 

13.  There  are  Greeks,  and  Greeks,  then,  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, differing  as  much  from  each  other  as  vice,  in  all  ages,  must 
differ  from  virtue.  But  in  Vasari's  sight  they  are  alike  ;  in 
ours,  they  must  be  so,  as  far  as  regards  our  present  purpose. 
As  men  of  a  school,  they  are  to  be  summed  under  the  general 
name  of  '  Byzantines  ;'  their  work  all  alike  showing  specific 
characters  of  attenuate,  rigid,  and  in  many  respects  offen- 
sively unbeautiful,  design,  to  which  Vasari's  epithets  of  "goffa, 
e  sproporzionata  "  are  naturally  applied  by  all  persons  trained 
only  in  modern  principles.  Under  masters,  then,  of  this  By- 
zantine race,  Niccola  is  working  at  Pisa. 

14.  Among  the  spoils  brought  by  her  fleets  from  Greece,  is 
a  sarcophagus,  with  Meleager's  hunt  on  it,  wrought  "con 
bellissima  maniera,"  says  Vasari. 

You  may  see  that  sarcophagus — any  of  you  who  go  to  Pisa  ; 
— touch  it,  for  it  is  on  a  level  with  your  hand  ;  study  it,  as  Nic- 
cola studied  it,  to  your  mind's  content.  Within  ten  yards  of 
it,  stand  equally  accessible  pieces  of  Mccola's  own  work  and 
of  his  son's.  Within  fifty  yards  of  it,  stands  the  Byzantine 
font  of  the  chapel  of  St.  John.  Spend  but  the  good  hours  of 
a  single  day  quietly  by  these  three  pieces  of  marble,  and  you 
may  learn  more  than  in  general  any  of  you  bring  home  from 
an  entire  tour  in  Italy.  But  how  many  of  you  ever  yet  went 
into  that  temple  of  St,  John,  knowing  what  to  look  for ;  or 


NICHOLAS  THE  PISAX. 


247 


spent  as  much  time  in  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa,  as  you  do  in 
Mr.  Byman's  shop  on  a  rainy  day  ? 

15.  The  sarcophagus  is  not,  however,  (with  Vasari's  pardon) 
in  '  bellissima  maniera  *  by  any  means.  But  it  is  in  the  clas- 
sical Greek  manner  instead  of  the  Byzantine  Greek  manner. 
You  have  to  learn  the  difference  between  these. 

Now  I  have  explained  to  you  sufficiently,  in  "Aratra  Pente- 
lici,"  what  the  classical  Greek  manner  is.  The  manner  and 
matter  of  it  being  easily  summed — as  those  of  natural  and 
unaffected  life  ; — nude  life  when  nudity  is  right  and  pure  ;  not 
otherwise.  To  Niccola,  the  difference  between  this  natural 
Greek  school,  and  the  Byzantine,  was  as  the  difference  between 
the  bull  of  Thurium  and  of  Delhi,  (see  Plate  19  of  "  Aratra 
Pentelici "). 

Instantly  he  followed  the  natural  fact,  and  became  the 
Father  of  Sculpture  to  Italy. 

16.  Are  we,  then,  also  to  be  strong  by  following  the  natural 
fact? 

Yes,  assuredly.  That  is  the  beginning  and  end  of  all  my 
teaching  to  you.  But  the  noble  natural  fact,  not  the  ignoble. 
You  are  to  study  men  ;  not  lice  nor  entozoa.  And  you  are  to 
study  the  souls  of  men  in  their  bodies,  not  their  bodies  only. 
Mulready's  drawings  from  the  nude  are  more  degraded  and 
bestial  than  the  worst  grotesques  of  the  Byzantine  or  even  the 
Indian  image  makers.  And  your  modern  mob  of  English  and 
American  tourists,  following  a  lamplighter  through  the  Vati- 
can to  have  pink  light  thrown  for  them  on  the  Apollo  Belvi- 
dere,  are  farther  from  capacity  of  understanding  Greek  art, 
than  the  parish  charity  boy,  making  a  ghost  out  of  a  turnip, 
with  a  candle  inside. 

17.  Niccola  followed  the  facts,  then.  He  is  the  Master  of 
Naturalism  in  Italy.  And  I  have  drawn  for  you  his  lioness 
and  cubs,  to  fix  that  in  your  minds.  And  beside  it,  I  put  the 
Lion  of  St.  Mark's,  that  you  may  see  exactly  the  kind  of  change 
he  made.  The  Lion  of  St.  Mark's  (all  but  his  wings,  which 
have  been  made  and  fastened  on  in  the  fifteenth  century),  is 
in  the  central  Byzantine  manner ;  a  fine  decorative  piece  of 
work,  descending  in  true  genealogy  from  the  Lion  of  Nemea, 


248 


VAL  JJ'ARNO. 


and  the  crested  skin  of  him  that  clothes  the  head  of  the  Her- 
acles of  Camarina.  It  has  all  the  richness  of  Greek  Daedal 
work, — nay,  it  has  fire  and  life  beyond  much  Greek  Daedal 
work  ;  but  in  so  far  as  it  is  non-natural,  symbolic,  decorative, 
and  not  like  an  actual  lion,  it  would  be  felt  by  Niccola  Pisano 
to  be  imperfect.  And  instead  of  this  decorative  evangelical 
preacher  of  a  lion,  with  staring  eyes,  and  its  paw  on  a  gospel, 
he  carves  you  a  quite  brutal  and  maternal  lioness,  with  affec- 
tionate eyes,  and  paw  set  on  her  cub. 

18.  Fix  that  in  your  minds,  then.  Niccola  Pisano  is  the 
Master  of  Naturalism  in  Italy, — therefore  elsewhere  ;  of  Nat- 
uralism, and  all  that  follows.  Generally  of  truth,  common- 
sense,  simplicity,  vitality, — and  of  all  these,  with  consummate 
power.  A  man  to  be  enquired  about,  is  not  he  ?  and  will  it 
not  make  a  difference  to  you  whether  you  look,  when  you 
travel  in  Italy,  in  his  rough  early  marbles  for  this  fountain  of 
life,  or  only  glance  at  them  because  your  Murray's  Guide  tells 
you, — and  think  them  "  odd  old  things  "  ? 

19.  "We  must  look  for  a  moment  more  at  one  odd  old  thing 
— the  sarcophagus  which  was  his  tutor.  Upon  it  is  carved  the 
hunting  of  Meleager  ;  and  it  was  made,  or  by  tradition  re- 
ceived as,  the  tomb  of  the  mother  of  the  Countess  Matilda.  I 
must  not  let  you  pass  by  it  without  noticing  two  curious  co- 
incidences in  these  particulars.  First,  in  the  Greek  subject 
which  is  given  Niccola  to  read. 

The  boar,  remember,  is  Diana's  enemy.  It  is  sent  upon  the 
fields  of  Calydon  in  punishment  of  the  refusal  of  the  Calydo- 
nians  to  sacrifice  to  her.  '  You  have  refused  me,'  she  said ; 
'  you  will  not  have  Artemis  Laphria,  Forager  Diana,  to  range 
in  your  fields.    You  shall  have  the  Forager  Swine,  instead.' 

Meleager  and  Atalanta  are  Diana's  servants, — servants  of 
all  order,  purity,  due  sequence  of  season,  and  time.  The 
orbed  architecture  of  Tuscany,  with  its  sculptures  of  the  suc- 
cession of  the  labouring  months,  as  compared  with  the  rude 
vaults  and  monstrous  imaginations  of  the  past,  was  again  the 
victory  of  Meleager. 

20.  Secondly,  take  what  value  there  is  in  the  tradition  ihat 
this  sarcophagus  was  made  the  tomb  of  the  mother  of  the 


NICHOLAS  THE  PISAN. 


Countess  Matilda.  If  you  look  to  the  fourteenth  chapter  of 
the  third  volume  of  "Modern  Painters,"  you  will  find  tho 
mythic  character  of  the  Countess  Matilda,  as  Dante  employed 
it,  explained  at  some  length.  She  is  the  representative  of 
Natural  Science  as  opposed  to  Theological. 

21.  Chance  coincidences  merely,  these  ;  but  full  of  teaching 
for  us,  looking  back  upon  the  past.  To  Niccola,  the  piece  of 
marble  was,  primarily,  and  perhaps  exclusively,  an  example  of 
free  chiselling,  and  humanity  of  treatment.  What  else  it  was 
to  him, — what  the  spirits  of  Atalanta  and  Matilda  could  be- 
stow on  him,  depended  on  what  he  was  himself.  Of  which 
Vasari  tells  you  nothing.  Not  whether  he  was  gentleman  or 
clown — rich  or  poor — soldier  or  sailor.  Was  he  never,  then, 
in  those  fleets  that  brought  the  marbles  back  from  the  rav- 
aged Isles  of  Greece  ?  was  he  at  first  only  a  labourer's  boy 
among  the  scaffoldings  of  the  Pisan  apse, — his  apron  loaded 
with  dust — and  no  man  praising  him  for  his  speech  ?  Rough 
he  was,  assuredly ;  probably  poor  ;  fierce  and  energetic,  be- 
yond even  the  strain  of  Pisa, — just  and  kind,  beyond  the  cus- 
tom of  his  age,  knowing  the  Judgment  and  Love  of  God  :  and 
a  workman,  with  all  his  soul  and  strength,  all  his  days. 

22.  You  hear  the  fame  of  him  as  of  a  sculptor  only.  It  is 
right  that  you  should ;  for  every  great  architect  must  be  a 
sculptor,  and  be  renowned,  as  such,  more  than  by  his  build- 
ing. But  Niccola  Pisano  had  even  more  influence  on  Italy  as 
a  builder  than  as  a  carver. 

For  Italy,  at  this  moment,  wanted  builders  more  than 
carvers  ;  and  a  change  was  passing  through  her  life,  of  which 
external  edifice  was  a  necessary  sign.  I  complained  of  you 
just  now  that  you  never  looked  at  the  Byzantine  font  in  the 
temple  of  St.  John.  The  sacristan  generally  will  not  let  you. 
He  takes  you  to  a  particular  spot  on  the  floor,  and  sings  a 
musical  chord.  The  chord  returns  in  prolonged  echo  from 
the  chapel  roof,  as  if  the  building  were  all  one  sonorous  mar- 
ble bell. 

Which  indeed  it  is  ;  and  travellers  are  always  greatly  amused 
at  being  allowed  to  ring  this  bell  ;  but  it  never  occurs  to  them 
to  ask  how  it  came  to  be  ringable  : — how  that  tintinnabulate 


250 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


roof  differs  from  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon,  expands  into  the 
dome  of  Florence,  or  declines  into  the  whispering  gallery  of 
St.  Paul's. 

23.  When  you  have  had  full  satisfaction  of  the  tintinnabu- 
late  roof,  you  are  led  by  the  sacristan  and  Murray  to  Niccola 
Pisano's  pulpit  ;  which,  if  you  have  spare  time  to  examine  it, 
you  find  to  have  six  sides,  to  be  decorated  with  tablets  of 
sculpture,  like  the  sides  of  the  sarcophagus,  and  to  be  sus- 
tained on  seven  pillars,  three  of  which  are  themselves  carried 
on  the  backs  of  as  many  animals. 

All  this  arrangement  had  been  contrived  before  Niccola's 
time,  and  executed  again  and  again.  But  behold !  between 
the  capitals  of  the  pillars  and  the  sculptured  tablets  there  are 
interposed  five  cusped  arches,  the  hollow  beneath  the  pulpit 
showing  dark  through  their  foils.  You  have  seen  such  cusped 
arches  before,  you  think  ? 

Yes,  gentlemen,  you  have ;  but  the  Pisans  had  not  And 
that  intermediate  layer  of  the  pulpit  means — the  change,  in  a 
word,  for  all  Europe,  from  the  Parthenon  to  Amiens  Cathe- 
dral. For  Italy  it  means  the  rise  of  her  Gothic  dynasty ;  it 
mean  the  duomo  of  Milan  instead  of  the  temple  of  Paestum. 

24.  I  say  the  duomo  of  Milan,  only  to  put  the  change  well 
before  your  eyes,  because  you  all  know  that  building  so  well. 
The  duomo  of  Milan  is  of  entirely  bad  and  barbarous  Gothic, 
but  the  passion  of  pinnacle  and  fret  is  in  it,  visibly  to  you, 
more  than  in  other  buildings.  It  will  therefore  serve  to  show 
best  what  fulness  of  change  this  pulpit  of  Niccola  Pisano 
signifies. 

In  it  there  is  no  passion  of  pinnacle  nor  of  fret.  You  see 
the  edges  of  it,  instead  of  being  bossed,  or  knopped,  or  crock- 
eted,  are  mouldings  of  severest  line.  No  vaulting,  no  clustered 
shafts,  no  traceries,  no  fantasies,  no  perpendicular  flights  of 
aspiration.  Steady  pillars,  each  of  one  polished  block  ;  useful 
capitals,  one  trefoiled  arch  between  them  ;  your  panel  above 
it  ;  thereon  your  story  of  the  founder  of  Christianity.  The 
whole  standing  upon  beasts,  they  being  indeed  the  foundation 
of  us,  (which  Niccola  knew  far  better  than  Mr.  Darwin)  ;  Eagle 
to  carry  your  Gospel  message— Dove-you  think  it  ought  to  be  ? 


Plate  II.— Niccola  Pisano's  Pulpit. 


NICHOLAS  THE  PISAK 


Eagle,  says  Niccola,  and  not  as  symbol  of  St,  John  Evangelist 
only,  but  behold  !  with  prey  between  its  claws.  For  the  Gos- 
pel, it  is  Niccola's  opinion,  is  not  altogether  a  message  that 
you  may  do  whatever  you  like,  and  go  straight  to  heaven." 
Finally,  a  slab  of  marble,  cut  hollow  a  little  to  bear  your  book  ; 
space  enough  for  you  to  speak  from  at  ease, — and  here  is  your 
first  architecture  of  Gothic  Christianity  ! 

25.  Indignant  thunder  of  dissent  from  German  doctors, — 
clamour  from  French  savants.  '  What !  and  our  Treves,  and 
our  Strasburg,  and  our  Poictiers,  and  our  Chartres !  And 
you  call  this  thing  the  first  architecture  of  Christianity  ! ' 
Yes,  my  French  and  German  friends,  very  fine  the  buildings 
you  have  mentioned  are  ;  and  I  am  bold  to  say  I  love  them  far 
better  than  you  do,  for  you  will  run  a  railroad  through  any  of 
them  any  day  that  you  can  turn  a  penny  by  it.  I  thank  you 
also,  Germans,  in  the  name  of  our  Lady  of  Strasburg,  for  your 
bullets  and  fire  ;  and  I  thank  you,  Frenchmen,  in  the  name  of 
our  Lady  of  Eouen,  for  your  new  haberdashers'  shops  in  the 
Gothic  town  ; — meanwhile  have  patience  with  me  a  little,  and 
let  me  go  on. 

26.  No  passion  of  fretwork,  or  pinnacle  whatever,  I  said,  is 
in  this  Pisan  pulpit.  The  trefoiled  arch  itself,  pleasant  as  it 
is,  seems  forced  a  little  ;  out  of  perfect  harmony  with  the  rest 
(see  Plate  II.).    Unnatural,  perhaps,  to  Niccola? 

Altogether  unnatural  to  him,  it  is;  such  a  thing  never 
would  have  come  into  his  head,  unless  some  one  had  shown 
it  him.  Once  got  into  his  head,  he  puts  it  to  good  use  ;  per- 
haps even  he  will  let  this  somebody  else  put  pinnacles  and 
crockets  into  his  head,  or  at  least,  into  his  son's,  in  a  little  while. 
Pinnacles, — crockets, — it  may  be,  even  traceries.  The  ground- 
tier  of  the  baptistery  is  round-arched,  and  has  no  pinnacles  ; 
but  look  at  its  first  story.  The  clerestory  of  the  Duomo  of 
Pisa  has  no  traceries,  but  look  at  the  cloister  of  its  Campo 
Santo. 

27.  I  pause  at  the  words  ; — for  they  introduce  a  new  group 
of  thoughts,  which  presently  we  must  trace  farther. 

The  Holy  Field  ;— field  of  burial.  The  "  cave  of  Machpelah 
which  is  before  Mamie,"  of  the  Pitas,    "  There  they  buried 


252 


VAL  D  Will*  0. 


Abraham,  and  Sarah  his  wife  ;  there  they  buried  Isaac,  and 
Hebekah  his  wife  ;  and  there  I  buried  Leah." 

How  do  you  think  such  a  field  becomes  holy, — how  sep- 
arated, as  the  resting-place  of  loving  kindred,  from  that  other 
field  of  blood,  bought  to  bury  strangers  in  ? 

When  you  have  finally  succeeded,  by  your  gospel  of  mam- 
mon, in  making  all  the  men  of  your  own  nation  not  only 
strangers  to  each  other,  but  ejaeinies  ;  and  when  your  every 
churchyard  becomes  therefore  a  field  of  the  stranger,  the 
kneeling  hamlet  will  vainly  drink  the  chalice  of  God  in  the 
midst  of  them.  The  field  will  be  unholy.  No  cloisters  of 
noble  history  can  ever  be  built  round  such  an  one. 

28.  But  the  very  earth  of  this  at  Pisa  was  holy,  as  you 
know.  That  "  armata  "  of  the  Tuscan  city  brought  home  not 
only  marble  and  ivory,  for  treasure  ;  but  earth, — a  fleet's 
burden, — from  the  place  where  there  was  healing  of  soul'3 
leprosy  :  and  their  field  became  a  place  of  holy  tombs,  pre- 
pared for  its  office  with  earth  from  the  land  made  holy  by 
one  tomb  ;  which  all  the  knighthood  of  Christendom  had 
been  pouring  out  its  life  to  win. 

29.  I  told  you  just  now  that  this  sculpture  of  Niccola's  was 
the  beginning  of  Christian  architecture.  How  do  you  judge 
that  Christian  architecture  in  the  deepest  meaning  of  it  to 
differ  from  all  other  ? 

All  other  noble  architecture  is  for  the  glory  of  living  gods 
and  men  ;  but  this  is  for  the  glory  of  death,  in  God  and  man. 
Cathedral,  cloister,  or  tomb, — shrine  for  the  body  of  Christ, 
or  for  the  bodies  of  the  saints.  All  alike  signifying  death  to 
this  world  ; — life,  other  than  of  this  world. 

Observe,  I  am  not  saying  how  far  this  feeling,  be  it  faith, 
or  be  it  imagination,  is  true  or  false  ; — I  only  desire  you  to 
note  that  the  power  of  all  Christian  work  begins  in  the  niche 
of  the  catacomb  and  depth  of  the  sarcophagus,  and  is  to  the 
end  definable  as  architecture  of  the  tomb. 

30.  Not  altogether,  and  under  every  condition,  sanctioned 
in  doing  such  honour  to  the  dead  by  the  Master  of  it.  Not 
every  grave  is  by  His  command  to  be  worshipped.  Graves 
there  may  be—too  little  guarded,  yet  dishonourable  ; — ye 


JOHN  THE  P1SAX. 


25J 


are  as  graves  that  appear  not,  and  the  men  that  walk  over 
them  are  not  aware  of  them."  And  graves  too  much  guarded, 
jet  dishonourable,  "  which  indeed  appear  beautiful  outwardly, 
but  are  within  full  of  all  uncleanness."  Or  graves,  themselves 
honourable,  yet  wThich  it  may  be,  in  us,  a  crime  to  adorn. 
"For  they  indeed  killed  them,  and  ye  build  their  sepulchres. " 

Questions,  these,  collateral ;  or  to  be  examined  in  due  time  ; 
for  the  present  it  is  enough  for  us  to  know  that  all  Christian 
architecture,  as  such,  has  been  hitherto  essentially  of  tombs. 

It  has  been  thought,  gentlemen,  that  there  is  a  fine  Gothic 
revival  in  your  streets  of  Oxford,  because  you  have  a  Gothic 
door  to  your  County  Bank  : 

Kemember,  at  ail  events,  it  was  other  kind  of  buried  treas- 
ure, and  bearing  other  interest,  which  Niccola  Pisano's  Gothic 
was  set  to  guard. 


LECTURE  II. 

JOHN    THE    PI  SAN. 

31.  I  closed  my  last  lecture  with  the  statement,  on  which  I 
desired  to  give  you  time  for  reflection,  that  Christian  archi- 
tecture was,  in  its  chief  energy,  the  adornment  of  tombs, — 
having  the  passionate  function  of  doing  honour  to  the  dead. 

But  there  is  an  ethic,  or  simply  didactic  and  instructive 
architecture,  the  decoration  of  which  you  will  find  to  be  nor- 
mally representative  of  the  virtues  which  are  common  alike  to 
Christian  and  Greek.  And  there  is  a  natural  tendency  to 
adopt  such  decoration,  and  the  modes  of  design  fitted  for  it, 
in  civil  buildings.* 

32.  Civil,  or  civic,  I  say,  as  opposed  to  military.  But  again 
observe,  there  are  two  kinds  of  military  building.  One,  the 
robber's  castle,  or  stronghold,  out  of  which  he  issues  to  pil- 
lage ;  the  other,  the  honest  man's  castle,  or  stronghold,  into 

*" These  several  rooms  were  indicated  by  symbol  and  device:  Vic- 
tory for  the  soldier,  Hope  for  the  exile,  the  Muses  for  the  poets,  Mer- 
cury for  the  artists,  Paradise  for  the  preacher." — (Sagacius  Gazata,  of 
the  Palace  of  Can  Grande.    I  translate  only  Sisinondi's  quotation.) 


254 


VAL  D>ARNO. 


which  be  retreats  from  pillage.  They  are  much  like  each 
other  in  external  forms  ; — but  Injustice,  or  Unrighteousness, 
sits  in  the  gate  of  the  one,  veiled  with  forest  branches,  (see 
Giotto's  painting  of  him) ;  and  Justice  or  Righteousness  enters 
by  the  gate  of  the  other,  over  strewn  forest  branches.  Now, 
for  example  of  this  second  kind  of  military  architecture,  look 
at  Carlyle's  account  of  Henry  the  Fowler,*  and  of  his  build- 
ing military  towns,  or  burgs,  to  protect  his  peasantry.  In 
such  function  you  have  the  first  and  proper  idea  of  a  walled 
town, — a  place  into  which  the  pacific  country  people  can  re- 
tire for  safety,  as  the  Athenians  in  the  Spartan  war.  Your 
fortress  of  this  kind  is  a  religious  and  civil  fortress,  or  burg, 
defended  by  burgers,  trained  to  defensive  war.  Keep  always 
this  idea  of  the  proper  nature  of  a  fortified  city  : — Its  walls 
mean  protection, — its  gates  hospitality  and  triumph.  In  the 
language  familiar  to  you,  spoken  of  the  chief  of  cities:  "Its 
walls  are  to  be  Salvation,  and  its  gates  to  be  Praise."  And 
recollect  always  the  inscription  over  the  north  gate  of  Siena: 
<c  Cor  magis  tibi  Sena  pandit." — "More  than  her  gates,  Siena 
opens  her  heart  to  you." 

33.  When  next  you  enter  London  by  any  of  the  great  lines, 
I  should  like  you  to  consider,  as  you  approach  the  city,  what 
the  feelings  of  the  heart  of  London  are  likely  to  be  on  your 
approach,  and  at  what  part  of  the  railroad  station  an  inscrip- 
tion, explaining  such  state  of  her  heart,  might  be  most  fitly 
inscribed.  Or  you  would  still  better  understand  the  differ- 
ence between  ancient  and  modern  principles  of  architecture 
by  taking  a  cab  to  the  Elephant  and  Castle,  and  thence  walk- 
ing to  London  Bridge  by  what  is  in  fact  the  great  southern 
entrance  of  London.  The  only  gate  receiving  you  is,  how- 
ever, the  arch  thrown  over  the  road  to  carry  the  South-East- 
ern  Railway  itself ;  and  the  only  exhibition  either  of  Salvation 
or  Praise  is  in  the  cheap  clothes'  shops  on  each  side ;  and 
especially  in  one  colossal  haberdasher's  shop,  over  which  you 
may  see  the  British  flag  waving  (in  imitation  of  "Windsor  Cas- 
tle) when  the  master  of  the  shop  is  at  home. 

34.  Next  to  protection  from  external  hostility,  the  two  ne- 

*  "  Frederick,"  vol.  i. 


JOHN  THE  P1SAK 


255 


cessities  in  a  city  are  of  food  and  water  supply  ; — the  latter 
essentially  constant.  You  can  store  food  and  forage,  but 
water  must  flow  freely.  Hence  the  Fountain  and  the  Mercato 
become  the  centres  of  civil  architecture. 

Premising  thus  much,  I  will  ask  you  to  look  once  more  at 
this  cloister  of  the  Gampo  Santo  of  Pisa. 

35.  On  first  entering  the  place,  its  quiet,  its  solemnity,  the 
perspective  of  its  aisles,  and  the  conspicuous  grace  and  pre- 
cision of  its  traceries,  combine  to  give  you  the  sensation  of 
having  entered  a  true  Gothic  cloister.  And  if  you  walk  round 
it  hastily,  and,  glancing  only  at  a  fresco  or  two,  and  the  con- 
fused tombs  erected  against  them,  return  to  the  uncloistered 
sunlight  of  the  piazza,  you  may  quite  easily  carry  away  with 
you,  and  ever  afterwards  retain,  the  notion  that  the  Campo 
Santo  of  Pisa  is  the  same  kind  of  thing  as  the  cloister  of 
Westminster  Abbey. 

36.  I  will  beg  you  to  look  at  the  building,  thus  photo- 
graphed, more  attentively.  The  "  long-drawn  aisle  "  is  here, 
indeed, — but  where  is  the  "fretted  vault"? 

A  timber  roof,  simple  as  that  of  a  country  barn,  and  of 
which  only  the  horizontal  beams  catch  the  eye,  connects  an 
entirely  plain  outside  wall  with  an  interior  one,  pierced  by 
round-headed  openings  ;  in  which  are  inserted  pieces  of  com- 
plex tracery,  as  foreign  in  conception  to  the  rest  of  the  work 
as  if  the  Pisan  armata  had  gone  up  the  Rhine  instead  of  to 
Crete,  pillaged  South  Germany,  and  cut  these  pieces  of  tra- 
cery out  of  the  windows  of  some  church  in  an  advanced  stage 
of  fantastic  design  at  Nuremberg  or  Frankfort. 

37.  If  you  begin  to  question,  hereupon,  who  was  the  Ital- 
ian robber,  whether  of  marble  or  thought,  and  look  to  your 
Vasari,  you  find  the  building  attributed  to  John  the  Pisan  ;  * 
— and  you  suppose  the  son  to  have  been  so  pleased  by  his 
father's  adoption  of  Gothic  forms  that  he  must  needs  borrow 
them,  in  this  manner,  ready  made,  from  the  Germans,  and 
thrust  them  into  his  round  arches,  or  wherever  else  they 
would  go. 

*The  present  traceries  are  of  fifteenth  century  work,  founded  oe 
Giovanni's  design. 


VAL  D'AIINO. 


We  will  look  at  something  more  of  his  work,  however,  be- 
fore drawing  such  conclusion. 

38.  In  the  centres  of  the  great  squares  of  Siena  and  Peru- 
gia, rose,  obedient  to  engineers'  art,  two  perennial  fountains. 
Without  engineers'  art,  the  glens  which  cleave  the  sand-rock 
of  Siena  flow  with  living  water  ;  and  still,  if  there  be  a  hell 
for  the  forger  in  Italy,  he  remembers  therein  the  sweet  grotto 
and  green  wave  of  Fonte  Branda.  But  on  the  very  summit 
of  the  two  hills,  crested  by  their  great  civic  fortresses,  and  in 
the  centres  of  their  circuit  of  walls,  rose  the  two  guided  wells  ; 
each  in  basin  of  goodly  marble,  sculptured— at  Perugia,  by 
John  of  Pisa,  at  Siena,  by  James  of  Quercia. 

39.  It  is  one  of  the  bitterest  regrets  of  my  life  (and  I  have 
many  which  some  men  would  find  difficult  to  bear,)  that  I 
never  saw,  except  when  I  was  a  youth,  and  then  with  sealed 
eyes,  Jacopo  della  Quercia's  fountain.*  The  Sienese,  a  little 
while  since,  tore  it  down,  and  put  up  a  model  of  it  by  a  mod- 
ern carver.  In  like  manner,  perhaps,  you  will  some  day  knock 
the  Elgin  marbles  to  pieces,  and  commission  an  Academician 
to  put  up  new  ones, — the  Sienese  doing  worse  than  that  (as 
if  the  Athenians  were  themselves  to  break  their  Phidias'  work). 

But  the  fountain  of  John  of  Pisa,  though  much  injured,  and 
glued  together  with  asphalt,  is  still  in  its  place. 

40.  I  will  now  read  to  you  what  Vasari  first  says  of  him, 
and  it.  (I.  67.)  "  Nicholas  had,  among  other  sons,  one  called 
John,  who,  because  he  always  followed  his  father,  and,  under 
his  discipline,  intended  (bent  himself  to,  with  a  will,)  sculpture 
and  architecture,  in  a  few  years  became  not  only  equal  to  his 
father,  but  in  some  things  superior  to  him  ;  wherefore  Nicho- 
las, being  now  old,  retired  himself  into  Pisa,  and  living  quietly 
there,  left  the  government  of  everything  to  his  son.  Accord- 
ingly, when  Pope  Urban  IV.  died  in  Perugia,  sending  was 
made  for  John,  who,  going  there,  made  the  tomb  of  that 
Pope  of  marble,  the  which,  together  with  that  of  Pope  Martin 
IV.,  was  afterwards  thrown  down,  when  the  Perugians  en- 

*  I  observe  that  Charles  Dickens  had  the  fortune  denied  to  me.  "  Th<3 
market-place,  or  great  Piazza,  is  a  large  square,  with  a  great  broken* 
tiosed  fountain  in  it."    ("  Pictures  from  Italy/') 


JOHN  THE  P1SAN. 


257 


larged  their  vescovado  ;  so  that  only  a  few  relics  are  seen 
sprinkled  about  the  church.  And  the  Perugians,  having  at 
the  same  time  brought  from  the  mountain  of  Pacciano,  two 
miles  distant  from  the  city,  through  canals  of  lead,  a  most 
abundant  water,  by  means  of  the  invention  and  industry  of  a 
friar  of  the  order  of  St.  Silvester,  it  was  given  to  John  the 
Pisan  to  make  all  the  ornaments  of  this  fountain,  as  well  of 
bronze  as  of  marble.  On  which  he  set  hand  to  it,  and  made 
there  three  orders  of  vases,  two  of  marble  and  one  of  bronze. 
The  first  is  put  upon  twelve  degrees  of  twelve-faced  steps  ; 
the  second  is  upon  some  columns  which  put  it  upon  a  level 
with  the  first  one;" — (that  is,  in  the  middle  of  it,)  "and  the 
third,  which  is  of  bronze,  rests  upon  three  figures  which  have 
in  the  middle  of  them  some  griffins,  of  bronze  too,  which  pour 
water  out  on  every  side." 

41.  Many  things  we  have  to  note  in  this  passage,  but  first 
I  will  show  you  the  best  picture  I  can  of  the  thing  itself. 

The  best  I  can  ;  the  thing  itself  being  half  destroyed,  and 
what  remains  so  beautiful  that  no  one  can  now  quite  rightly 
draw  it ;  but  Mr.  Arthur  Severn,  (the  son  of  Keats's  Mr.  Sev- 
ern,) was  with  me,  looking  reverently  at  those  remains,  last 
summer,  and  has  made,  with  help  from  the  sun,  this  sketch 
for  you  (Plate  III.) ;  entirely  true  and  effective  as  far  as  his 
time  allowed. 

Half  destroyed,  or  more,  I  said  it  was, — Time  doing  grievous 
work  on  it,  and  men  worse.  You  heard  Vasari  saying  of  it, 
that  it  stood  on  twelve  degrees  of  twelve-faced  steps.  These 
— worn,  doubtless,  into  little  more  than  a  rugged  slope — have 
been  replaced  by  the  moderns  with  four  circular  steps,  and 
an  iron  railing  ;  *  the  bas-reliefs  have  been  carried  off  from 
the  panels  of  the  second  vase,  and  its  fair  marble  lips  choked 
with  asphalt : — of  what  remains,  you  have  here  a  rough  but 
true  image. 

In  which  you  see  there  is  not  a  trace  of  Gothic  feeling  or 
design  of  any  sort.  No  crockets,  no  pinnacles,  no  foils,  no 
vaultings,  no  grotesques  in  sculpture.    Panels  between  pillars, 

*  In  Mr.  Severn's  sketch,  the  form  of  the  original  foundation  is  ap- 
proximately restored. 


258 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


panels  carried  on  pillars,  sculptures  in  those  panels  like  the 
Metopes  of  the  Parthenon  ;  a  Greek  vase  in  the  middle,  and 
griffins  in  the  middle  of  that.  Here  is  your  font,  not  at  all  of 
Saint  John,  but  of  profane  and  civil-engineering  John.  This 
is  his  manner  of  baptism  of  the  town  of  Perugia. 

42.  Thus  early,  it  seems,  the  antagonism  of  profane  Greek 
to  ecclesiastical  Gothic  declares  itself.  It  seems  as  if  in  Peru- 
gia, as  in  London,  you  had  the  fountains  in  Trafalgar  Square 
against  Queen  Elinor's  Cross  ;  or  the  viaduct  and  railway  sta- 
tion contending  with  the  Gothic  chapel,  which  the  master  of 
the  large  manufactory  close  by  has  erected,  because  he  thinks 
pinnacles  and  crockets  have  a  pious  influence  ;  and  will  pre- 
vent his  workmen  from  asking  for  shorter  hours,  or  more  wages. 

43.  It  seems  only  ;  the  antagonism  is  quite  of  another  kind, 
— or,  rather,  of  many  other  kinds.  But  note  at  once  how 
complete  it  is — how  utterly  this  Greek  fountain  of  Perugia, 
and  the  round  arches  of  Pisa,  are  opposed  to  the  school  of 
design  which  gave  the  trefoils  to  Niccola's  pulpit,  and  the 
traceries  to  Giovanni's  Campo  Santo. 

The  antagonism,  I  say,  is  of  another  kind  than  ours  ;  but 
deep  and  wide  ;  and  to  explain  it,  I  must  pass  for  a  time  to 
apparently  irrelevant  topics. 

You  were  surprised,  I  hope,  (if  you  were  attentive  enough 
to  catch  the  points  in  what  I  just  now  read  from  Vasari,)  at 
my  venturing  to  bring  before  you,  just  after  I  had  been  using 
violent  language  against  the  Sienese  for  breaking  up  the  work 
of  Quercia,  that  incidental  sentence  giving  account  of  the 
much  more  disrespectful  destruction,  by  the  Perugians,  of  the 
tombs  of  Pope  Urban  IV.,  and  Martin  IV. 

Sending  was  made  for  John,  you  see,  first,  when  Pope 
Urban  IV.  died  in  Perugia — whose  tomb  was  to  be  carved  by 
John  ;  the  Greek  fountain  being  a  secondary  business.  But 
the  tomb  was  so  well  destroyed,  afterwards,  that  only  a  few 
relics  remained  scattered  here  and  there. 

The  tomb,  I  have  not  the  least  doubt,  was  Gothic  ; — and  the 
breaking  of  it  to  pieces  was  not  in  order  to  restore  it  after- 
wards, that  a  living  architect  might  get  the  job  of  restoration. 
Here  is  a  stone  out  of  one  of  Giovanni  Pisano's  loveliest  Gothic 


JOHN  THE  PISAN. 


259 


buildings,  which  I  myself  saw  with  my  own  eyes  dashed  out, 
that  a  modern  builder  might  be  paid  for  putting  in  another. 
But  Pope  Urban's  tomb  was  not  destroyed  to  such  end.  There 
was  no  qualm  of  the  belly,  driving  the  hammer, — qualm  of 
the  conscience  probably ;  at  all  events,  a  deeper  or  loftier 
antagonism  than  one  on  points  of  taste,  or  economy. 

44.  You  observed  that  I  described  this  Greek  profane  man- 
ner of  design  as  properly  belonging  to  civil  buildings,  as 
opposed  not  only  to  ecclesiastical  buildings,  but  to  military 
ones.  Justice,  or  Righteousness,  and  Veracity,  are  the 
characters  of  Greek  art.  These  may  be  opposed  to  re- 
ligion, when  religion  becomes  fantastic ;  but  they  must  be 
opposed  to  war,  when  war  becomes  unjust.  And  if,  per- 
chance, fantastic  religion  and  unjust  war  happen  to  go  hand 
in  hand,  your  Greek  artist  is  likely  to  use  his  hammer  against 
them  spitefully  enough. 

45.  His  hammer,  or  his  Greek  fire.  Hear  now  this  ex- 
ample of  the  engineering  ingenuities  of  our  Pisan  papa,  in 
his  younger  days. 

"  The  Florentines  having  begun,  ill  Niccola's  time,  to  throw 
down  many  towers,  which  had  been  built  in  a  barbarous 
manner  through  the  whole  city  ;  either  that  the  people  might 
be  less  hurt,  by  their  means,  in  the  fights  that  often  took 
place  between  the  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines,  or  else  that  there 
might  be  greater  security  for  the  State,  it  appeared  to  them 
that  it  wrould  be  very  difficult  to  ruin  the  Tower  of  the  Death- 
watch,  which  was  in  the  place  of  St.  John,  because  it  had  its 
walls  built  with  such  a  grip  in  them  that  the  stones  could  not 
be  stirred  with  the  pickaxe,  and  also  because  it  was  of  the 
loftiest ;  whereupon  Nicholas,  causing  the  tower  to  be  cut,  at 
the  foot  of  it,  all  the  length  of  one  of  its  sides;  and  closing 
up  the  cut,  as  he  made  it,  with  short  (wooden)  under-props, 
about  a  yard  long,  and  setting  fire  to  them,  when  the  props 
were  burned,  the  tower  fell,  and  broke  itself  nearly  all  to 
pieces  :  which  was  held  a  thing  so  ingenious  and  so  useful 
for  such  affairs,  that  it  has  since  passed  into  a  custom,  so  that 
wThen  it  is  needful,  in  this  easiest  manner,  any  edifice  may  be 
thrown  down." 


260 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


46.  'When  it  is  needful.'  Yes;  but  when  is  that?  II 
instead  of  the  towers  of  the  Death-watch  in  the  city,  one 
could  ruin  the  towers  of  the  Death-watch  of  evil  pride  and 
evil  treasure  in  men's  hearts,  there  would  be  need  enough 
for  such  work  both  in  Florence  and  London.  But  the  walla 
of  those  spiritual  towers  have  still  stronger  ' grip '  in  them, 
and  are  fireproof  with  a  vengeance. 

°  Le  mure  me  pare  an  die  ferro  fosse, 
•    •    •    e  el  mi  dixe,  il  fuoco  eterno 
Chentro  laft'oca,  le  dimostra  rosse." 

But  the  towers  in  Florence,  shattered  to  fragments  by  this 
ingenious  engineer,  and  the  tombs  in  Perugia,  which  his  son 
will  carve,  only  that  they  also  may  be  so  well  destroyed  that 
only  a  few  relics  remain,  scattered  up  and  down  the  church, 
— are  these,  also,  only  the  iron  towers,  and  the  red-hot  tombs, 
of  the  city  of  Dis  ? 

Let  us  see. 

47.  In  order  to  understand  the  relation  of  the  tradesmen 
and  working  men,  including  eminently  the  artist,  to  the 
general  life  of  the  thirteenth  century,  I  must  lay  before  you 
the  clearest  elementary  charts  I  can  of  the  course  which  the 
fates  of  Italy  were  now  appointing  for  her. 

My  first  chart  must  be  geographical.  I  want  you  to  have 
a  clearly  dissected  and  closely  fitted  notion  of  the  natural 
boundaries  of  her  states,  and  their  relations  to  surrounding 
ones. 

Lay  hold  first,  firmly,  of  your  conception  of  the  valleys  of 
the  Po  and  the  Arno,  running  counter  to  each  other — opening 
east  and  opening  west, — Venice  at  the  end  of  the  one,  Pisa 
at  the  end  of  the  other. 

48.  These  two  valleys — the  hearts  of  Lombardy  and  Etruria 
— virtually  contain  the  life  of  Italy.  They  are  entirely  differ- 
ent in  character  :  Lombardy,  essentially  luxurious  and  worldly, 
at  this  time  rude  in  art,  but  active  ;  Etruria,  religious,  in- 
tensely imaginative,  and  inheriting  refined  forms  of  art  from 
before  the  days  of  Porsenna. 

49.  South  of  these,  in  mid-Italy,  you  have  Romagna, — the 


JOHN  TEE  PISAN. 


2G1 


valley  of  the  Tiber.  In  that  valley,  decayed  Rome,  with  her 
lust  of  empire  inextinguishable  ; — no  inheritance  of  imagina- 
tive art,  nor  power  of  it ;  dragging  her  own  ruins  hourly  into 
more  fantastic  ruin,  and  defiling  her  faith  hourly  with  more 
fantastic  guilt. 

South  of  Bomagna,  you  have  the  kingdoms  of  Calabria  and 
Sicily, — Magna  Graecia,  and  Syracuse,  in  decay  ;  —  strange 
spiritual  fire  from  the  Saracenic  east  still  lighting  the  volcanic 
land,  itself  laid  all  in  ashes. 

50.  Conceive  Italy  then  always  in  these  four  masses :  Lom- 
bardy,  Etruria,  Bomagna,  Calabria. 

Now  she  has  three  great  external  powers  to  deal  with  :  the 
western,  France — the  northern,  Germany — the  eastern,  Arabia. 
On  her  right  the  Frank  ;  on  her  left  the  Saracen  ;  above  her, 
the  Teuton.  And  roughly,  the  French  are  a  religious  chivalry; 
the  Germans  a  profane  chivalry  ;  the  Saracens  an  infidel  chiv- 
alry. What  is  best  of  each  is  benefiting  Italy ;  what  is  worst, 
afflicting  her.  And  in  the  time  we  are  occupied  with,  all  are 
afflicting  her. 

What  Charlemagne,  Barbarossa,  or  Saladin  did  to  teach 
.  her,  you  can  trace  only  by  caref ullest  thought.    But  in  this 
thirteenth  century  all  these  three  powers  are  adverse  to  her, 
as  to  each  other.   Map  the  methods  of  their  adversity  thus  : — 

51.  Germany,  (profane  chivalry,)  is  vitally  adverse  to  the 
Popes  ;  endeavouring  to  establish  imperial  and  knightly  power 
against  theirs.  It  is  fiercely,  but  frankly,  covetous  of  Italian 
territory,  seizes  all  it  can  of  Lombardy  and  Calabria,  and  with 
any  help  procurable  either  from  robber  Christians  or  robber 
Saracens,  strives,  in  an  awkward  manner,  and  by  open  force, 
to  make  itself  master  of  Borne,  and  all  Italy. 

52.  France,  all  surge  and  foam  of  pious  chivalry,  lifts  her- 
self in  fitful  rage  of  devotion,  of  avarice,  and  of  pride.  She 
is  the  natural  ally  of  the  church  ;  makes  her  owrn  monks  the 
proudest  of  the  Popes ;  raises  Avignon  into  another  Borne ; 
prays  and  pillages  insatiably  ;  pipes  pastoral  songs  of  inno- 
cence, and  invents  grotesque  variations  of  crime  ;  gives  grace 
to  the  rudeness  of  England,  and  venom  to  the  cunning  of  Italy. 
She  is  a  chimera  among  nations,  and  one  knows  not  whether 


2G2 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


to  admire  most  the  valour  of  Guiscard,  the  virtue  of  St.  Louig 
or  the  villany  of  his  brother. 

53.  The  Eastern  powers — Greek,  Israelite,  Saracen — are  at 
once  the  enemies  of  the  Western,  their  prey,  and  their  tutors. 

They  bring  them  methods  of  ornament  and  of  merchandise, 
and  stimulate  in  them  the  worst  conditions  of  pugnacity,  big- 
otry, and  rapine.  That  is  the  broad  geographical  and  polit- 
ical relation  of  races.  Next,  you  must  consider  the  conditions 
of  their  time. 

54  I  told  you,  in  my  second  lecture  on  Engraving,  that 
before  the  twelfth  century  the  nations  were  too  savage  to  be 
Christian,  and  after  the  fifteenth  too  carnal  to  be  Christian. 

The  delicacy  of  sensation  and  refinements  of  .imagination 
necessary  to  understand  Christianity  belong  to  the  mid  period 
when  men  risen  from  a  life  of  brutal  hardship  are  not  yet 
fallen  to  one  of  brutal  luxury.  You  can  neither  comprehend 
the  character  of  Christ  while  you  are  chopping  flints  for  tools, 
and  gnawing  raw  bones  for  food  ;  nor  w7hen  you  have  ceased 
to  do  anything  with  either  tools  or  hands,  and  dine  on  gilded 
capons.    In  Dante's  lines,  beginning 

il  I  saw  Bellincion  Berti  walk  abroad 
In  leathern  girdle,  witli  a  clasp  of  bone," 

you  have  the  expression  of  his  sense  of  the  increasing  luxury 
of  the  age,  already  sapping  its  faith.  But  when  Bellincion 
Berti  walked  abroad  in  skins  not  yet  made  into  leather,  and 
with  the  bones  of  his  dinner  in  a  heap  at  his  door,  instead  of 
being  cut  into  girdle  clasps,  he  was  just  as  far  from  capacity  of 
being  a  Christian. 

55.  The  following  passage,  from  Carlyle's  "  Chartism,"  ex- 
presses better  than  any  one  else  has  done,  or  is  likely  to  do  it, 
the  nature  of  this  Christian  era,  (extending  from  the  twelfth 
to  the  sixteenth  century,)  in  England, — the  like  being  entirely 
true  of  it  elsewhere  : — 

"In  those  past  silent  centuries,  among  those  silent  classes, 
much  had  been  going  on.  Not  only  had  red  deer  in  the  New 
and  other  forests  been  got  preserved  and  shot ;  and  treacher- 


JOHN  THE  PISAtf. 


263 


ies*  of  Simon  de  Montfort,  wars  of  Bed  and  White  Koses, 
battles  of  Crecy,  battles  of  Boswortk,  and  many  other  battles, 
been  got  transacted  and  adjusted ;  but  England  wholly,  not 
without  sore  toil  and  aching  bones  to  the  millions  of  sires  and 
the  millions  of  sons  of  eighteen  generations,  had  been  got 
drained  and  tilled,  covered  with  yellow  harvests,  beautiful  and 
rich  in  possessions.  The  mud-wooden  Caesters  and  Chesters 
had  become  steepled,  tile-roofed,  compact  towns.  Sheffield 
had  taken  to  the  manufacture  of  Sheffield  whittles.  "Worstead 
could  from  wool  spin  yarn,  and  knit  or  weave  the  same  into 
stockings  or  breeches  for  men.  England  had  property  valu- 
able to  the  auctioneer  ;  but  the  accumulate  manufacturing, 
commercial,  economic  skill  which  lay  impalpably  warehoused 
in  English  hands  and  heads,  what  auctioneer  could  estimate  ? 

"  Hardly  an  Englishman  to  be  met  with  but  could  do 
something ;  some  cunninger  thing  than  break  his  fellow- 
creature's  head  with  battle-axes.  The  seven  incorporated 
trades,  with  their  million  guild-brethren,  with  their  hammers, 
their  shuttles,  and  tools,  what  an  army, — fit  to  conquer  that 
land  of  England,  as  wre  say,  and  hold  it  conquered  !  Nay, 
strangest  of  all,  the  English  people  had  acquired  the  faculty 
and  habit  of  thinking, — even  of  believing  ;  individual  con- 
science had  unfolded  itself  among  them  ; — Conscience,  and 
Intelligence  its  handmaid,  f  Ideas  of  innumerable  kinds 
were  circulating  among  these  men  ;  witness  one  Shakspeare, 
a  wool-comber,  poacher  or  whatever  else,  at  Stratford,  in  War- 
wickshire, who  happened  to  write  books  ! — the  finest  human 
figure,  as  I  apprehend,  that  Nature  has  hitherto  seen  fit  to 
make  of  our  widely  Teutonic  clay.  Saxon,  Norman,  Celt,  or 
Sarmat,  I  find  no  humm  soul  so  beautiful,  these  fifteen  hun- 
dred known  years  ; — our  supreme  moderii  European  man. 

*  Perhaps  not  altogether  so,  any  more  than  Oliver's !  dear  papa  Car- 
lyle.  We  may  have  to  read  him  also,  otherwise  than  the  British  popu- 
lace have  yet  read,  some  day. 

f  Observe  Carlyle's  order  of  sequence.  Perceptive  Reason  is  the 
Handmaid  of  Conscience,  not  Conscience  hers.  If  you  resolve  to  do 
right,  you  will  soon  do  wisely  ;  but  resolve  only  to  do  wisely,  and  you 
will  never  do  right. 


264 


VAL  Jb'ARNO. 


Him  England  had   contrived  to  realize  :  were  there  noi 

ideas  ? 

£C  Ideas  poetic  and  also  Puritanic,  that  had  to  seek  utter* 
ance  in  the  notables t  way  !  England  had  got  her  Shaks- 
peare,  but  was  now  about  to  get  her  Milton  and  Oliver  Crom- 
well. This,  too,  we  will  call  a  new  expansion,  hard  as  it 
might  be  to  articulate  and  adjust ;  this,  that  a  man  could 
actually  have  a  conscience  for  his  own  behoof,  and  not  for  his 
priest's  only  ;  that  his  priest,  be  he  who  he  might,  would 
henceforth  have  to  take  that  fact  along  with  him." 

56.  You  observe,  in  this  passage,  account  is  given  you  of 
two  things — (a)  of  the  development  of  a  powerful  class  of 
tradesmen  and  artists ;  and,  (b)  of  the  development  of  an  in- 
dividual conscience. 

In  the  savage  times  you  had  simply  the  hunter,  digger,  and 
robber ;  now  you  have  also  the  manufacturer  and  salesman- 
The  ideas  of  ingenuity  with  the  hand,  of  fairness  in  exchange, 
have  occurred  to  us.  We  can  do  something  now  with  our 
fingers,  as  well  as  with  our  fists  ;  and  if  we  want  our  neigh- 
bours' goods,  we  will  not  simply  carry  them  off,  as  of  old,  but 
offer  him  some  of  ours  in  exchange. 

57.  Again  ;  whereas  before  we  were  content  to  let  our 
priests  do  for  us  all  they  could,  by  gesticulating,  dressing, 
sacrificing,  or  beating  of  drums  and  blowing  of  trumpets  ;  and 
also  direct  our  steps  in  the  wray  of  life,  without  any  doubt  on 
our  part  of  their  own  perfect  acquaintance  writh  it, — we  have 
now  got  to  do  something  for  ourselves — to  think  something 
for  ourselves ;  and  thus  have  arrived  in  straits  of  conscience 
which,  so  long  as  we  endeavour  to  steer  through  them  hon- 
estly, will  be  to  us  indeed  a  quite  secure  way  of  life,  and  of 
all  living  wisdom. 

58.  Now  the  centre  of  this  new  freedom  of  thought  is  in 
Germany  ;  and  the  power  of  it  is  shown  first,  as  I  told  you  in 
my  opening  lecture,  in  the  great  struggle  of  Frederick  II. 
with  Eome.  And  German  freedom  of  thought  had  certainly 
made  some  progress,  when  it  had  managed  to  reduce  the 
Pope  to  disguise  himself  as  a  soldier,  ride  out  of  Home  by 
moonlight,  and  gallop  his  thirty-four  miles  to  the  seaside  be* 


Plate  IV.— Norman  Imagery. 


JOHN  THE  PISAK 


2G5 


fore  summer  dawn.  Here,  clearly,  is  quite  a  new  state  of 
things  for  the  Holy  Father  of  Christendom  to  consider,  dur- 
ing such  wholesome  horse-exercise. 

59.  Again  ;  the  refinements  of  new  art  are  represented  by 
France — centrally  by  St.  Louis  with  his  Sainte  Chapelie. 
Happily,  I  am  able  to  lay  on  your  table  to-day — having  placed 
it  three  years  ago  in  your  educational  series — a  leaf  of  a 
Psalter,  executed  for  St.  Louis  himself.  He  and  his  artists 
are  scarcely  out  of  their  savage  life  yet,  and  have  no  notion 
of  adorning  the  Psalms  better  than  by  pictures  of  long-necked 
cranes,  long-eared  rabbits,  long-tailed  lions,  and  red  and 
white  goblins  putting  their  tongues  out.*  But  in  refinement 
of  touch,  in  beauty  of  colour,  in  the  human  faculties  of  order 
and  grace,  they  are  long  since,  evidently,  past  the  flint  and 
bone  stage, — refined  enough,  now, — subtle  enough,  nowr,  to 
learn  anything  that  is  pretty  and  fine,  whether  in  theology  or 
any  other  matter. 

60.  Lastly,  the  new  principle  of  Exchange  is  represented 
by  Lombardy  and  Venice,  to  such  purpose  that  your  Mer- 
chant and  Jew  of  Venice,  and  your  Lombard  of  Lombard 
Street,  retain  some  considerable  influence  on  your  minds, 
even  to  this  day. 

And  in  the  exact  midst  of  all  such  transition,  behold,  Etru- 
ria  with  her  Pisans — her  Florentines, — receiving,  resisting, 
and  reigning  over  all :  pillaging  the  Saracens  of  their  marbles 
— binding  the  French  bishops  in  silver  chains ; — shattering 
the  towers  of  German  tyranny  into  small  pieces,— building 
with  strange  jewellery  the  belfry  tower  for  newly-conceived 
Christianity  ; — and,  in  sacred  picture,  and  sacred  song,  reach- 
ing the  height,  among  nations,  most  passionate,  and  most  pure. 

I  must  close  my  lecture  without  indulging  myself  yet,  by 
addition  of  detail ;  requesting  you,  before  we  next  meet,  to 
fix  these  general  outlines  in  your  minds,  so  that,  without  dis- 
turbing their  distinctness,  I  may  trace  in  the  sequel  the  rela- 
tions of  Italian  Art  to  these  political  and  religious  powers  ; 

*  I  cannot  go  to  the  expense  of  engraving  this  most  subtle  example  ; 
but  Plate  IV.  shows  the  average  conditions  of  temper  and  imagination 
in  religious  ornamental  work  of  the  time. 


266 


VAL  D'AUNO. 


and  determine  with  what  force  of  passionate  sympathy,  or 
fidelity  of  resigned  obedience,  the  Pisan  artists,  father  and 
son,  executed  the  indignation  of  Florence  and  fulfilled  the 
piety  of  Orvieto. 


LECTURE  III. 

SHIELD    AND  APRON. 

61.  I  laid  before  you,  in  my  last  lecture,  first  lines  of  the 
chart  of  Italian  history  in  the  thirteenth  century,  which  I 
hope  gradually  to  fill  with  colour,  and  enrich,  to  such  degree 
as  may  be  sufficient  for  all  comfortable  use.  But  I  indicated, 
as  the  more  special  subject  of  our  immediate  study,  the  nas- 
cent power  of  liberal  thought,  and  liberal  art,  over  dead  tra- 
dition and  rude  workmanship. 

To-day  I  must  ask  you  to  examine  in  greater  detail  the 
exact  relation  of  this  liberal  art  to  the  illiberal  elements  which 
surrounded  it.  - 

62.  You  do  not  often  hear  me  use  that  word  "  Liberal  "  in 
any  favourable  sense.  I  do  so  now,  because  I  use  it  also  in  a 
very  narrow  and  exact  sense.  I  mean  that  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury is,  in  Italy's  year  of  life,  her  17th  of  March.  In  the 
light  of  it,  she  assumes  her  toga  virilis  ;  and  it  is  sacred  to 
her  god  Liber. 

63.  To  her  god  Liber, — observe  :  not  Dionusos,  still  less 
Bacchus,  but  her  own  ancient  and  simple  deity.  And  if  you 
have  read  with  some  care  the  statement  I  gave  you,  with 
Carlyle's  help,  of  the  moment  and  manner  of  her  change  from 
savageness  to  dexterity,  and  from  rudeness  to  refinement  of 
life,  you  will  hear,  familiar  as  the  lines  are  to  you,  the  invoca- 
tion in  the  first  Georgic  with  a  new  sense  of  its  meaning : — 

u  Vos,  O  clarissima  mundi 
Lumina,  labentem  coelo  quae  ducitis  annum, 
Liber,  et  alma  Ceres  ;  vestro  si  munere  tellus 
Chaoniam  pingui  glandem  mutavit  arista, 
Poculaqu1  inventis  Aclieloia  miscuit  uvis, 
Munera  vestra  cano.'' 


SHIELD  AND  APRON. 


These  gifts,  innocent,  rich,  full  of  life,  exquisitely  beautiful 
in  order  and  grace  of  growth,  I  have  thought  best  to  symbol- 
ize to  you,  in  the  series  of  types  of  the  power  of  the  Greek 
gocls,  placed  in  your  educational  series,  by  the  blossom  of 
the  wild  strawberry  ;  which  in  rising  from  its  trine  cluster  of 
trine  leaves, — itself  as  beautiful  as  a  white  rose,  and  always 
single  on  its  stalk,  like  an  ear  of  com,  yet  with  a  succeeding 
blossom  at  its  side,  and  bearing  a  fruit  which  is  as  distinctly 
a  group  of  seeds  as  an  ear  of  corn  itself,  and  yet  is  the  pleas- 
antest  to  taste  of  all  the  pleasant  things  prepared  by  nature 
for  the  food  of  men,* — may  accurately  symbolize,  and  help 
you  to  remember,  the  conditions  of  this  liberal  and  delight- 
ful, yet  entirely  modest  and  orderly,  art,  and  thought. 

64.  You  will  find  in  the  fourth  of  my  inaugural  lectures,  at 
the  98th  paragraph,  this  statement, —  much  denied  by  modern 
artists  and  authors,  but  nevertheless  quite  unexceptionally 
true, — that  the  entire  vitality  of  art  depends  upon  its  having 
for  object  either  to  date  a  trite  thing,  or  adorn  a  serviceable  one. 
The  two  functions  of  art  in  Italy,  in  this  entirely  liberal  and 
virescent  phase  of  it, — virgin  art,  we  may  call  it,  retaining  the 
most  literal  sense  of  the  words  virga  and  virgo, — are  to  mani- 
fest the  doctrines  of  a  religion  which  now,  for  the  first  time, 
men  had  soul  enough  to  understand  ;  and  to  adorn  edifices  or 
dress,  with  which  the  completed  politeness  of  daily  life  might 
be  invested,  its  convenience  completed,  and  its  decorous  and 
honourable  pride  satisfied. 

65.  That  pride  was,  among  the  men  who  gave  its  character 
to  the  century,  in  honourableness  of  private  conduct,  and  use- 
ful magnificence  of  public  art.  Not  of  private  or  domestic 
art :  observe  this  very  particularly. 

"  Such  was  the  simplicity  of  private  manners, " — (I  am  now 
quoting  Sismondi,  but  with  the  fullest  ratification  that  my 
knowledge  enables  me  to  give,) — "and  the  economy  of  the 
richest  citizens,  that  if  a  city  enjoyed  repose  only  for  a  few 
years,  it  doubled  its  revenues,  and  found  itself,  in  a  sort,  en- 

*  I  am  sorry  to  pack  my  sentences  together  in  this  confused  way. 
But  I  have  much  to  say  ;  and  cannot  always  stop  to  polish  or  adjust  it 
as  I  used  to  do. 


2G8 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


cumbered  with  its  riches.  The  Pisans  knew  neither  of  the  lux- 
ury of  the  table,  nor  that  of  furniture,  nor  that  of  a  number  of 
servants  ;  yet  they  were  sovereigns  of  the  whole  of  Sardinia, 
Corsica,  and  Elba,  had  colonies  at  St.  Jean  d'Acre  and  Constan- 
tinople, and  their  merchants  in  those  cities  carried  on  the  most 
extended  commerce  with  the  Saracens  and  Greeks."  * 

66.  "  And  in  that  time,"  (I  now  give  you  my  own  transla- 
tion of  Giovanni  Villani,)  "the  citizens  of  Florence  lived 
sober,  and  on  coarse  meats,  and  at  little  cost ;  and  had  many 
customs  and  playfulnesses  which  were  blunt  and  rude  ;  and 
they  dressed  themselves  and  their  wives  with  coarse  cloth  ; 
many  wore  merely  skins,  with  no  lining,  and  all  had  only 
leathern  buskins  ;f  and  the  Florentine  ladies,  plain  shoes  and 
stockings  with  no  ornaments  ;  and  the  best  of  them  were  con- 
tent with  a  close  gown  of  coarse  scarlet  of  Cyprus,  or  camlet 
girded  with  an  old-fashioned  clasp-girdle  ;  and  a  mantle  over 
all,  lined  with  vaire,  with  a  hood  above  ;  and  that,  they  threw 
over  their  heads.  The  women  of  lower  rank  were  dressed  in 
the  same  manner,  with  coarse  green  Cambray  cloth  ;  fifty 
pounds  was  the  ordinary  bride's  dowry,  and  a  hundred  or  a 
hundred  and  fifty  would  in  those  times  have  been  held  brill- 
iant, ('isfolgorata,'  dazzling,  with  sense  of  dissipation  or  ex- 
travagance ;)  and  most  maidens  were  twenty  or  more  before 
they  married.  Of  such  gross  customs  were  then  the  Floren- 
tines ;  but  of  good  faith,  and  loyal  among  themselves  and  in 
their  state  ;  and  in  their  coarse  life,  and  poverty,  did  more  and 

-  Sismondi  ;  French  translation,  Brussels,  1838  ;  vol.  ii.,  p.  275. 

f  I  find  this  note  for  expansion  on  the  margin  of  my  lecture,  but  had 
no  time  to  work  it  out : — k  This  lower  class  should  be  either  barefoot,  or 
have  strong  shoes— wooden  clogs  good.  Pretty  Boulogne  sabot  with 
purple  stockings.  Waterloo  Road— little  girl  with  her  hair  in  curlpapers, 
—  a  coral  necklace  round  her  neck — the  neck  bare — and  her  boots  of 
thin  stuff,  worn  out,  with  her  toes  coming  through,  and  rags  hanging 
from  her  heels, — a  profoundly  accurate  type  of  English  national  and 
political  life.  Your  hair  in  curlpapers— borrowing  tongs  from  every 
foreign  nation,  to  pinch  you  into  manners.  The  rich  ostentatiously 
wearing  coral  about  the  bare  neck  ;  and  the  poor — cold  as  the  stones, 
and  indecent.* 


SHIELD  AND  APRON 


269 


braver  things  than  are  done  in  our  days  with  more  refinement 
and  riches." 

67.  I  detain  you  a  moment  at  the  words  "scarlet  of  Cyprus, 
or  camlet." 

Observe  that  camelot  (camelet)  from  Ka^qXiHTrj,  camel's  skin, 
is  a  stuff  made  of  silk  and  camel's  hair  originally,  afterwards 
of  silk  and  wool.  At  Florence,  the  camel's  hair  would  always 
heave  reference  to  the  Baptist,  who,  as  you  know,  in  Lippi's 
picture,  wears  the  camel's  skin  itself,  made  into  a  Florentine 
dress,  such  as  Villani  has  just  described,  "col  tassello  sopra," 
with  the  hood  above.  Do  you  see  how  important  the  word 
"  Capulet  "  is  becoming  to  us,  in  its  main  idea  ? 

68.  Not  in  private  nor  domestic  art,  therefore.  I  repeat  to 
you,  but  in  useful  magnificence  of  public  art,  these  citizens 
expressed  their  pride  : — and  that  public  art  divided  itself  into 
two  branches — civil,  occupied  upon  ethic  subjects  of  sculpture 
and  painting  ;  and  religious,  occupied  upon  scriptural  or  tra- 
ditional histories,  in  treatment  of  which,  nevertheless,  the 
nascent  power  and  liberality  of  thought  were  apparent,  not 
only  in  continual  amplification  and  illustration  of  scriptural 
story  by  the  artist's  own  invention,  but  in  the  acceptance  of 
profane  mythology,  as  part  of  the  Scripture,  or  tradition, 
given  by  Divine  inspiration. 

69.  Nevertheless,  for  the  provision  of  things  necessary  in 
domestic  life,  there  developed  itself,  together  with  the  group 
of  inventive  artists  exercising  these  nobler  functions,  a  vast 
body  of  craftsmen,  and,  literally,  manufacturers,  workers  by 
hand,  who  associated  themselves,  as  chance,  tradition,  or  the 
accessibility  of  material  directed,  in  towns  which  thencefor- 
ward occupied  a  leading  position  in  commerce,  as  producers 
of  a  staple  of  excellent,  or  perhaps  inimitable,  quality  ;  and 
the  linen  or  cambric  of  Cambra}^,  the  lace  of  Mechlin,  the  wool 
of  Worstead,  and  the  steel  of  Milan,  implied  the  tranquil  and 
hereditary  skill  of  multitudes,  living  in  wealthy  industry,  and 
humble  honour. 

70.  Among  these  artisans,  the  weaver,  the  iron  smith,  the 
goldsmith,  the  carpenter,  and  the  mason  necessarily  took  the 
principal  rank,  and  on  their  occupations  the  more  refined  arts 


270 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


were  wholesomely  based,  so  that  the  five  businesses  may  be 
more  completely  expressed  thus  : — 

The  weaver  and  embroiderer, 

The  iron  smith  and  armourer, 

The  goldsmith  and  jeweller, 

The  carpenter  and  engineer, 

The  stonecutter  and  painter. 
You  have  only  once  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  Leonardo's 
sketch  book,  in  the  Ambrosian  Library,  to  see  how  carpentry 
is  connected  with  engineering, — the  architect  was  always  a 
stonecutter,  and  the  stonecutter  not  often  practically  sepa- 
rate, as  yet,  from  the  painter,  and  never  so  in  general  con- 
ception of  function.  You  recollect,  at  a  much  later  period, 
Kent's  description  of  Cornwall's  steward  : 

"Kent.  You  cowardly  rascal! — nature  disclaims  in  thee,  a  tailor 
made  thee  ! 

Cornwall.  Thou  art  a  strange  fellow — a  tailor  make  a  man  ? 
Kent.  Ay,  sir  ;  a  stonecutter,  or  a  painter,  could  not  have  made 
him  so  ill  ;  though  they  had  been  but  two  hours  at  the  trade." 

71.  You  may  consider  then  this  group  of  artizans  with  the 
merchants,  as  now  forming  in  each  town  an  important  Tiers 
Etat,  or  Third  State  of  the  people,  occupied  in  service,  first, 
of  the  ecclesiastics,  who  in  monastic  bodies  inhabited  the 
cloisters  round  each  church ;  and,  secondly,  of  the  knights, 
who,  with  their  retainers,  occupied,  each  family  their  own 
fort,  in  allied  defence  of  their  appertaining  streets. 

72.  A  Third  Estate,  indeed  ;  but  adverse  alike  to  both  the 
others,  to  Montague  as  to  Capulet,  when  they  become  disturb- 
ers of  the  public  peace  ;  and  having  a  pride  of  its  own, — 
hereditary  still,  but  consisting  in  the  inheritance  of  skill  and 
knowledge  rather  than  of  blood, — which  expressed  the  sense 
of  such  inheritance  by  taking  its  name  habitually  from  the 
master  rather  than  the  sire  ;  and  which,  in  its  natural  antagon- 
ism to  dignities  won  only  by  violence,  or  recorded  only  by 
heraldry,  you  may  think  of  generally  as  the  race  whose  bear' 
ing  is  the  Apron,  instead  of  the  shield, 

73.  When,  however,  these  two,  or  in  perfect  subdivision 


SHIELD  AND  APRON. 


271 


three,  bodies  of  men,  lived  in  harmony, — the  knights  remain- 
ing true  to  the  State,  the  clergy  to  their  faith,  and  the  work- 
men  to  their  craft, — conditions  of  national  force  were  arrived 
at,  under  which  all  the  great  art  of  the  middle  ages  was  ac- 
complished. The  pride  of  the  knights,  the  avarice  of  the 
priests,  and  the  gradual  abasement  of  character  in  the  crafts- 
man, changing  him  from  a  citizen  able  to  wield  either  tools  in 
peace  or  weapons  in  war,  to  a  dull  tradesman,  forced  to  pay 
mercenary  troops  to  defend  his  shop  door,  are  the  direct 
causes  of  common  ruin  towards  the  close  of  the  sixteenth 
century. 

74.  But  the  deep  underlying  cause  of  the  decline  in  national 
character  itself,  was  the  exhaustion  of  the  Christian  faith. 
None  of  its  practical  claims  were  avouched  either  by  reason 
or  experience  ;  and  the  imagination  grew  weary  of  sustaining 
them  in  despite  of  both.  Men  could  not,  as  their  powers  of 
reflection  became  developed,  steadily  conceive  that  the  sins 
of  a  life  might  be  done  away  with,  by  finishing  it  with  Miny's 
name  on  the  lips ;  nor  could  tradition  of  miracle  for  ever 
resist  the  personal  discovery,  made  by  each  rude  disciple  by 
himself,  that  he  might  pray  to  all  the  saints  for  a  twelvemonth 
together,  and  yet  not  get  what  he  asked  for. 

75.  The  Reformation  succeeded  in  proclaiming  that  ex- 
isting Christianity  was  a  lie  ;  but  substituted  no  theory  of  it 
which  could  be  more  rationally  or  credibly  sustained  ;  and 
ever  since,  the  religion  of  educated  persons  throughout 
Europe  has  been  dishonest  or  ineffectual ;  it  is  only  among 
the  labouring  peasantry  that  the  grace  of  a  pure  Catholicism, 
and  the  patient  simplicities  of  the  Puritan,  maintain  their 
imaginative  dignity,  or  assert  their  practical  use. 

76.  The  existence  of  the  nobler  arts,  however,  involves  the 
harmonious  life  and  vital  faith  of  the  three  classes  whom  we 
have  just  distinguished  ;  and  that  condition  exists,  more  or 
less  disturbed,  indeed,  by  the  vices  inherent  in  each  class,  yet, 
on  the  whole,  energetically  and  productively,  during  the 
twelfth,  thirteenth,  fourteenth,  and  fifteenth  centuries.  But 
our  present  subject  being  Architecture  only,  I  will  limit  your 
attention  altogether  to  the  state  of  society  in  the  great  age  of 


272 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


architecture,  the  thirteenth  century.  A  great  age  in  all  ways ; 
but  most  notably  so  in  the  correspondence  it  presented,  up  to 
a  just  and  honourable  point,  with  the  utilitarian  energy  of 

our  own  days. 

77.  The  increase  of  wealth,  the  safety  of  industry,  and  the 
conception  of  more  convenient  furniture  of  life,  to  which  we 
must  attribute  the  rise  of  the  entire  artist  class,  were  accom- 
panied, in  that  century,  by  much  enlargement  in  the  concep- 
tion of  useful  public  works  :  and — not  by  private  enterprise, — 
that  idle  persons  might  get  dividends  out  of  the  public  pocket, 
— but  by  public  enterprise, — each  citizen  paying  down  at  once 
his  share  of  what  was  necessary  to  accomplish  the  benefit  to 
the  State, — great  architectural  and  engineering  efforts  were 
made  for  the  common  service.  Common,  observe ;  but  not, 
in  our  present  sense,  republican.  One  of  the  most  ludi- 
crous sentences  ever  written  in  the  blindness  of  party  spirit 
is  that  of  Sismondi,  in  which  he  declares,  thinking  of  these 
public  works  only,  that  '  the  architecture  of  the  thirteenth 
century  is  entirely  republican. '  The  architecture  of  the  thir- 
teenth century  is,  in  the  mass  of  it,  simply  baronial  or  ec- 
clesiastical ;  it  is  of  castles,  palaces,  or  churches  ;  but  it  is 
true  that  splendid  civic  works  were  also  accomplished  by 
the  vigour  of  the  newly  risen  popular  power. 

"The  canal  named  Naviglio  Grande,  wdiich  brings  the 
waters  of  the  Ticino  to  Milan,  traversing  a  distance  of  thirty 
miles,  was  undertaken  in  1179,  recommended  in  1257,  and, 
soon  after,  happily  terminated  ;  in  it  still  consists  the  wealth 
of  a  vast  extent  of  Lombardy.  At  the  same  time  the  town 
of  Milan  rebuilt  its  walls,  which  w*ere  three  miles  round, 
and  had  sixteen  marble  gates,  of  magnificence  which  might 
have  graced  the  capital  of  all  Italy.  The  Genovese,  in  1276 
and  1283,  built  their  two  splendid  docks,  and  the  great 
wall  of  their  quay  ;  and  in  1295  finished  the  noble  aque- 
duct which  brings  pure  and  abundant  waters  to  their  city 
from  a  great  distance  among  their  mountains.  There  is  not 
a  single  town  in  Italy  which  at  the  same  time  did  not  under- 
take works  of  this  land  ;  and  while  these  larger  undertak- 
ings were  in  progress,  stone  bridges  were  built  across  the 


SHIELD  AND  APRON. 


273 


rivers,  the  streets  and  piazzas  were  paved  with  large  slabs 
of  stone,  and  every  free  government  recognized  the  duty  of 
providing  for  the  convenience  of  the  citizens."  * 

78.  The  necessary  consequence  of  this  enthusiasm  in  use- 
ful building,  was  the  formation  of  a  vast  body  of  craftsmen  and 
architects  ;  corresponding  in  importance  to  that  which  the 
railway,  wTith  its  associated  industry,  has  developed  in  modern 
times,  but  entirely  different  in  personal  character,  and  rela- 
tion to  the  body  politic. 

Their  personal  character  was  founded  on  the  accurate 
knowledge  of  their  business  in  all  respects  ;  the  ease  and  pleas- 
ure of  unaffected  invention  ;  and  the  true  sense  of  power  to 
do  everything  better  than  it  had  ever  been  yet  done,  coupled 
with  general  contentment  in  life,  and  in  its  vigour  and  skill. 

It  is  impossible  to  overrate  the  difference  between  such  a 
condition  of  mind,  and  that  of  the  modern  artist,  who  either 
does  not  know  his  business  at  all,  or  knows  it  only  to  recog- 
nize his  own  inferiority  to  every  former  workman  of  distinc- 
tion. 

79.  Again  :  the  political  relation  of  these  artificers  to  the 
State  was  that  of  a  caste  entirely  separate  from  the  noblesse  ;  f 
paid  for  their  daily  work  what  was  just,  and  competing  with 
each  other  to  supply  the  best  article  they  could  for  the  money. 
And  it  is,  again,  impossible  to  overrate  the  difference  be- 
tween such  a  social  condition,  and  that  of  the  artists  of  to-day, 
struggling  to  occupy  a  position  of  equality  in  wrealth  with  the 
noblesse, — paid  irregular  and  monstrous  prices  by  an  entirely 
ignorant  and  selfish  public  ;  and  competing  with  each  other  to 
supply  the  worst  article  they  can  for  the  money. 

I  never  saw  anything  so  impudent  on  the  walls  of  any  ex- 
hibition, in  any  country,  as  last  year  in  London.  It  was  a 
daub  professing  to  be  a  "harmony  in  pink  and  white5'  (or 
some  such  nonsense  ;)  absolute  rubbish,  and  which  had  taken 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  scrawl  or  daub — it  had  no  pre- 

*  Simondi,  vol  ii.  chap.  10. 

f  The  giving  of  knighthood  to  Jacopo  della  Quercia  for  his  lifelong 
service  to  Siena  was  not  the  elevation  of  a  dexterous  workman,  but 
grace  to  a  faithful  citizen. 


274 


VA1  D'ABNO. 


tence  to  be  called  painting.  The  price  asked  for  it  was  two 
hundred  and  fifty  guineas. 

80.  In  order  to  complete  your  broad  view  of  the  elements  of 
social  power  in  the  thirteenth  century,  you  have  now  farther 
to  understand  the  position  of  the  country  people,  who  main- 
tained by  their  labour  these  three  classes,  whose  action  you 
can  discern,  and  whose  history  you  can  read  ;  while,  of  those 
who  maintained  them,  there  is  no  history,  except  of  the  an- 
nual ravage  of  their  fields  by  contending  cities  or  nobles  ; — and, 
finally,  that  of  the  higher  body  of  merchants,  whose  influ- 
ence was  already  beginning  to  counterpoise  the  prestige  of 
noblesse  in  Florence,  and  who  themselves  constituted  no 
small  portion  of  the  noblesse  of  Venice. 

The  food-producing  country  was  for  the  most  part  still 
possessed  by  the  nobles  ;  some  by  the  ecclesiastics  ;  but  a 
portion,  I  do  not  know  how  large,  was  in  the  hands  of  peas- 
ant proprietors,  of  whom  Sismondi  gives  this,  to  my  mind, 
completely  pleasant  and  satisfactory,  though,  to  his,  very  pain- 
ful, account  : — 

"They  took  no  interest  in  public  affairs  ;  they  had  assem- 
blies of  their  commune  at  the  village  in  which  the  church  of 
their  parish  was  situated,  and  to  which  they  retreated  to  de- 
fend themselves  in  case  of  war ;  they  had  also  magistrates  of 
their  own  choice  ;  but  all  their  interests  appeared  to  them  en- 
closed in  the  circle  of  their  own  commonality  ;  they  did  not 
meddle  with  general  politics,  and  held  it  for  their  point  of 
honour  to  remain  faithful,  through  all  revolutions,  to  the 
State  of  which  they  formed  a  part,  obeying,  without  hesita- 
tion, its  chiefs,  whoever  they  were,  and  by  whatever  title  they 
occupied  their  places." 

81.  Of  the  inferior  agricultural  labourers,  employed  on  the 
farms  of  the  nobles  and  richer  ecclesiastics,  I  find  nowhere 
due  notice,  nor  does  any  historian  seriously  examine  their 
manner  of  life.  Liable  to  every  form  of  robbery  and  oppres- 
sion, I  yet  regard  their  state  as  not  only  morally  but  physi- 
cally happier  than  that  of  riotous  soldiery,  or  the  lower  class 
of  artizans,  and  as  the  safeguard  of  every  civilized  nation, 
through  all  its  worst  vicissitudes  of  folly  and  crime.  Nature 


SHIELD  AND  APRON. 


275 


has  mercifully  appointed  that  seed  must  be  sown,  and  sheep 
folded,  whatever  lances  break,  or  religions  fail ;  and  at  this 
hour,  while  the  streets  of  Florence  and  Verona  are  full  ot 
idle  politicians,  loud  of  tongue,  useless  of  hand  and  treacher- 
ous of  heart,  there  still  may  be  seen  in  their  market-places, 
standing,  each  by  his  heap  of  pulse  or  maize,  the  grey-haired 
labourers,  silent,  serviceable,  honourable,  keeping  faith,  un- 
touched by  change,  to  their  country  and  to  Heaven.* 

82.  It  is  extremely  difficult  to  determine  in  what  degree 
the  feelings  or  intelligence  of  this  class  influenced  the  archi- 
tectural design  of  the  thirteenth  century  ; — how  far  afield  the 
cathedral  tower  was  intended  to  give  delight,  and  to  what 
simplicity  of  rustic  conception  Quereia  or  Ghiberti  appealed 
by  the  fascination  of  their  Scripture  history.  You  may  at 
least  conceive,  at  this  date,  a  healthy  animation  in  all  men's 
minds,  and  the  children  of  the  vineyard  and  sheepcote  crowd- 
ing the  city  on  its  festa  days,  and  receiving  impulse  to  busier, 
if  not  nobler,  education,  in  its  splendour. f 

83.  Tiie  great  class  of  the  merchants  is  more  difficult  to 
define  ;  but  you  may  regard  them  generally  as  the  examples 
of  whatever  modes  of  life  might  be  consistent  with  peace  and 
justice,  in  the  economy  of  transfer,  as  opposed  to  the  military 
license  of  pillage. 

They  represent  the  gradual  ascendancy  of  foresight,  pru- 
dence, and  order  in  society,  and  the  first  ideas  of  advantageous 
national  intercourse.  Their  body  is  therefore  composed  of 
the  most  intelligent  and  temperate  natures  of  the  time, — 
uniting  themselves,  not  directly  for  the  purpose  of  making 
money,  but  to  obtain  stability  for  equal  institutions,  security 
of  property,  and  pacific  relations  with  neighbouring  states. 
Their  guilds  form  the  only  representatives  of  true  national 
council,  unaffected,  as  the  landed  proprietors  were,  by  merely 
local  circumstances  and  accidents. 

84.  The  strength  of  this  order,  when  its  own  conduct  was 

*  Compare  u  Sesame  and  Lilies,"  sec.  38,  p.  58.  (P.  86  of  the  small 
edition  of  1882.) 

f  Of  detached  abbeys,  see  note  on  Education  of  Joan  of  Arc,  "  Se- 
same and  Lilies,"  sec.  82,  p.  106.    (P.  158  of  the  small  edition  of  1882.) 


276 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


upright,  and  its  opposition  to  the  military  body  was  not  in 
avaricious  cowardice,  but  in  the  resolve  to  compel  justice  and 
to  secure  peace,  can  only  be  understood  by  you  after  an  exam- 
ination of  the  great  changes  in  the  government  of  Florence 
during  the  thirteenth  century,  which,  among  other  minor 
achievements  interesting  to  us,  led  to  that  destruction  of  the 
Tower  of  the  Death-watch,  so  ingeniously  accomplished  by 
Niccola  Pisano.  This  change,  and  its  results,  will  be  the 
subject  of  my  next  lecture.  I  must  to-day  sum,  and  in  some 
farther  degree  make  clear,  the  facts  already  laid  before  you. 

85.  We  have  seen  that  the  inhabitants  of  every  great  Italian 
state  may  be  divided,  and  that  very  stringently,  into  the  five 
classes  of  knights,  priests,  merchants,  artists,  and  peasants. 
No  distinction  exists  between  artist  and  artizan,  except  that 
of  higher  genius  or  better  conduct ;  the  best  artist  is  assur- 
edly also  the  best  artizan  ;  and  the  simplest  wrorkman  uses 
his  invention  and  emotion  as  well  as  his  fingers.  The  entire 
body  of  artists  is  under  the  orders  (as  shopmen  are  under  the 
orders  of  their  customers),  of  the  knights,  priests,  and  mer- 
chants,— the  knights  for  the  most  part  demanding  only  fine 
goldsmiths'  work,  stout  armour,  and  rude  architecture  ;  the 
priests  commanding  both  the  finest  architecture  and  painting, 
and  the  richest  kinds  of  decorative  dress  and  jewellery, — 
while  the  merchants  directed  works  of  public  use,  and  were 
the  best  judges  of  artistic  skill.  The  competition  for  the 
Baptistery  gates  of  Florence  is  before  the  guild  of  merchants  ; 
nor  is  their  award  disputed,  even  in  thought,  by  any  of  the 
candidates. 

86.  This  is  surely  a  fact  to  be  taken  much  to  heart  by  our 
present  communities  of  Liverpool  and  Manchester.  They 
probably  suppose,  in  their  modesty,  that  lords  and  clergymen 
are  the  proper  judges  of  art,  and  merchants  can  only,  in  the 
modern  phrase,  'know  what  they  like,'  or  follow  humbly  the 
guidance  of  their  golden -crested  or  flat-capped  superiors. 
But  in  the  great  ages  of  art,  neither  knight  nor  pope  shows 
signs  of  true  power  of  criticism.  The  artists  crouch  before 
them,  or  quarrel  with  them,  according  to  their  own  tempers. 
To  the  merchants  they  submit  silently,  as  to  just  and  capable 


SHIELD  AND  APRON. 


277 


judges.  And  look  what  men  these  are,  who  submit.  Dona- 
tello,  Ghiberti,  Quercia,  Luca !  If  men  like  these  submit  to 
the  merchant,  who  shall  rebel  ? 

87.  But  the  still  franker,  and  surer,  judgment  of  innocent 
pleasure  was  awarded  them  by  all  classes  alike  :  and  the  inter- 
est of  the  public  was  the  final  rule  of  right, — that  public  being 
always  eager  to  see,  and  earnest  to  learn.  For  the  stories 
told  by  their  artists  formed,  they  fully  believed,  a  Book  of 
Life  ;  and  every  man  of  real  genius  took  up  his  function  of 
illustrating  the  scheme  of  human  morality  and  salvation,  aa 
naturally,  and  faithfully,  as  an  English  mother  of  to-day  giv- 
ing her  children  their  first  lessons  in  the  Bibie.  In  this 
endeavour  to  teach  they  almost  unawares  taught  themselves  ; 
the  question  "How  shall  I  represent  this  most  clearly?"  be- 
came to  themselves,  presently,  "How  wTas  this  most  likely  to 
have  happened  ?  "  and  habits  of  fresh  and  accurate  thought 
thus  quickly  enlivened  the  formalities  of  the  Greek  pictorial 
theology  ;  formalities  themselves  beneficent,  because  restrain- 
ing by  their  severity  and  mystery  the  wantonness  of  the  newer 
life.  Foolish  modern  critics  have  seen  nothing  in  the  Byzan- 
tine school  but  a  barbarism  to  be  conquered  and  forgotten. 
But  that  school  brought  to  the  art-scholars  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  laws  which  had  been  serviceable  to  Phidias,  and 
symbols  which  had  been  beautiful  to  Homer :  and  methods 
and  habits  of  pictorial  scholarship  which  gave  a  refinement  of 
manner  to  the  work  of  the  simplest  craftsman,  and  became 
an  education  to  the  higher  artists  which  no  discipline  of  liter- 
ature can  now  bestow,  developed  themselves  in  the  effort  to 
decipher,  and  the  impulse  to  re-interpret,  the  Eleusinian 
livinity  of  Byzantine  tradition. 

88.  The  words  I  have  just  used,  "  pictorial  scholarship,"  and 
C:  pictorial  theology,"  remind  me  how  strange  it  must  appear 
to  you  that  in  this  sketch  of  the  intellectual  state  of  Italy  in 
the  thirteenth  century  I  have  taken  no  note  of  literature  itself, 
nor  of  the  fine  art  of  Music  with  which  it  was  associated  in 
minstrelsy.  The  corruption  of  the  meaning  of  the  word 
"  clerk,"  from  "  a  chosen  person  "  to  "  a  learned  one,"  partly 
indicates  the  position  of  literature  in  the  war  between  the 


278 


VAL  D'AENO. 


golden  crest  and  scarlet  cap  ;  but  in  the  higher  ranks,  liter* 
ature  and  music  became  the  grace  of  the  noble's  life,  or  the 
occupation  of  the  monk's,  without  forming  any  separate  class, 
or  exercising  any  materially  visible  political  power.  Masons 
or  butchers  might  establish  a  government, — but  never  trouba- 
dours :  and  though  a  good  knight  held  his  education  to  be  im- 
perfect unless  he  could  write  a  sonnet  and  sing  it,  he  did  not 
esteem  his  castle  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  the  "  editor "  of  a 
manuscript.  He  might  indeed  owe  his  life  to  the  fidelity  of 
a  minstrel,  or  be  guided  in  his  policy  by  the  wit  of  a  clown  ; 
but  he  was  not  the  slave  of  sensual  music,  or  vulgar  literature, 
and  never  allowed  his  Saturday  reviewer  to  appear  at  table 
without  the  cock's  comb. 

89.  On  the  other  hand,  what  was  noblest  in  thought  or  say- 
ing was  in  those  times  as  little  attended  to  as  it  is  now.  I  do 
not  feel  sure  that,  even  in  after  times,  the  poem  of  Dante  has 
had  any  political  effect  on  Italy  ;  but  at  all  events,  in  his  life, 
even  at  Verona,  where  he  was  treated  most  kindly,  he  had  not 
half  so  much  influence  with  Can  Grande  as  the  rough  Count 
of  Castelbarco,  not  one  of  whose  words  was  ever  written,  or 
now  remains  ;  and  whose  portrait,  by  no  means  that  of  a  man 
of  literary  genius,  almost  disfigures,  by  its  plainness,  the 
otherwise  grave  and  perfect  beauty  of  his  tomb. 


LECTURE  IV. 

PARTED  PER  PALE. 

90.  The  chart  of  Italian  intellect  and  policy  which  I  have 
endeavoured  to  put  into  form  in  the  last  three  lectures,  may, 
I  hope,  have  given  you  a  clear  idea  of  the  subordinate,  yet 
partly  antagonistic,  position  which  the  artist,  or  merchant,— 
whom  in  my  present  lecture  I  shall  class  together, — occupied, 
with  respect  to  the  noble  and  priest.  As  an  honest  labourer, 
he  was  opposed  to  the  violence  of  pillage,  and  to  the  folly  of 
pride  :  as  an  honest  thinker,  he  was  likely  to  discover  any 
latent  absurdity  in  the  stories  he  had  to  represent  in  their 


PARTED  PEE  PALE. 


279 


nearest  likelihood  ;  and  to  be  himself  moved  strongly  by  the 
true  meaning  of  events  which  he  was  striving  to  make  ocularly 
manifest.  The  painter  terrified  himself  with  his  own  fiends, 
and  reproved  or  comforted  himself  by  the  lips  of  his  own 
saints,  far  more  profoundly  than  any  verbal  preacher  ;  and 
thus,  whether  as  craftsman  or  inventor,  was  likely  to  be  fore- 
most in  defending  the  laws  of  his  city,  or  directing  its  refor- 
mation. 

91.  The  contest  of  the  craftsman  with  the  pillaging  soldier 
is  typically  represented  by  the  war  of  the  Lombard  League 
with  Frederick  II.  ;  and  that  of  the  craftsman  with  the  hypo- 
critical priest,  by  the  war  of  the  Pisans  with  Gregory  IX. 
(1241).  But  in  the  present  lecture  I  wish  only  to  fix  your  at- 
tention on  the  revolutions  in  Florence,  which  indicated,  thus 
early,  the  already  established  ascendancy  of  the  moral  forces 
which  were  to  put  an  end  to  open  robber-soldiership  ;  and  at 
least  to  compel  the  assertion  of  some  higher  principle  in  war, 
if  not,  as  in  some  distant  day  may  be  possible,  the  cessation 
of  war  itself. 

The  most  important  of  these  revolutions  was  virtually  that 
of  which  I  before  spoke  to  you,  taking  place  in  mid-thirteenth 
century,  in  the  year  1250, — a  very  memorable  one  for  Chris- 
tendom, and  the  very  crisis  of  vital  change  in  its  methods  of 
economy,  and  conceptions  of  art. 

92.  Observe,  first,  the  exact  relations  at  that  time  of  Chris- 
tian and  Profane  Chivalry.  St.  Louis,  in  the  winter  of  1248-9. 
lay  in  the  isle  of  Cyprus,  with  his  crusading  army.  He  had 
trusted  to  Providence  for  provisions  ;  and  his  army  was  starv- 
ing. The  profane  German  emperor,  Frederick  II,  was  at  war 
with  Venice,  but  gave  a  safe-conduct  to  the  Venetian  ships, 
which  enabled  them  to  carry  food  to  Cyprus,  and  to  save  St. 
Louis  and  his  crusaders.  Frederick  had  been  for  half  his  life 
excommunicate, — and  the  Pope  (Innocent  IV.)  at  deadly  spirit- 
ual and  temporal  war  with  him  ; — spiritually,  because  he  had 
brought  Saracens  into  Apulia ;  temporally,  because  the  Pope 
wanted  Apulia  for  himself.  St.  Louis  and  his  mother  both 
wrote  to  Innocent,  praying  him  to  be  reconciled  to  the  kind 
heretic  who  had  saved  the  whole  crusading  army.    But  tha 


2S0 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


Pope  remained  implacably  tbundrous ;  and  Frederick,  wear? 
of  quarrel,  stayed  quiet  in  one  of  his  Apulian  castles  for  a 
year.  The  repose  of  infidelity  is  seldom  cheerful,  unless  it  be 
criminal.  Frederick  had  much  to  repent  of,  much  to  regret, 
nothing  to  hope,  and  nothing  to  do.  At  the  end  of  his  year's 
quiet  he  was  attacked  by  dysentery,  and  so  made  his  final 
peace  with  the  Pope,  and  heaven, — aged  fifty-six. 

93.  Meantime  St.  Louis  had  gone  on  into  Egypt,  had  got 
his  army  defeated,  his  brother  killed,  and  himself  carried 
captive.  You  may  be  interested  in  seeing,  in  the  leaf  of  his 
psalter  which  I  have  laid  on  the  table,  the  death  of  that 
brother  set  down  in  golden  letters,  between  the  common 
letters  of  ultramarine,  on  the  eighth  of  February. 

94.  Providence,  defied  by  Frederick,  and  trusted  in  by  St. 
Louis,  made  such  arrangements  for  them  both ;  Providence 
not  in  anywise  regarding  the  opinions  of  either  king,  but 
very  much  regarding  the  facts,  that  the  one  had  no  business 
in  Egypt,  nor  the  other  in  Apulia. 

No  two  kings,  in  the  history  of  the  world,  could  have  been 
happier,  or  more  useful,  than  these  two  might  have  been,  if 
they  only  had  had  the  sense  to  stay  in  their  own  capitals,  and 
attend  to  their  own  affairs.  But  they  seem  only  to  have  been 
born  to  show  what  grievous  results,  under  the  power  of  dis- 
contented imagination,  a  Christian  could  achieve  by  faith,  and 
a  philosopher  by  reason.* 

95.  The  death  of  Frederick  II.  virtually  ended  the  soldier 
power  in  Florence  ;  and  the  mercantile  power  assumed  the 
authority  it  thenceforward  held,  until,  in  the  hands  of  the 
Medici,  it  destroyed  the  city. 

We  will  now  trace  the  course  and  effects  of  the  three  revolu- 
tions which  closed  the  reign  of  War,  and  crowned  the  power 
of  Peace. 

*  It  must  not  be  thought  that  this  is  said  in  disregard  of  the  nobleness 
of  either  of  these  two  glorious  Kings.  Among  the  many  designs  of  past 
years,  one  of  my  favorites  was  to  write  a  life  of  Frederick  II.  But  I 
hope  that  both  his,  and  that  of  Henry  II.  of  England,  will  soon  be 
written  now,  by  a  man  who  loves  them  as  well  as  I  do,  and  knows  them 
far  better. 


PARTED  PER  PALE. 


281 


96.  In  the  year  1248,  while  St.  Louis  was  in  Cyprus,  I  told 
you  Frederick  was  at  war  with  Venice.  He  was  so  because 
she  stood,  if  not  as  the  leader,  at  least  as  the  most  important 
ally,  of  the  great  Lombard  mercantile  league  against  the 
German  military  power. 

That  league  consisted  essentially  of  Venice,  Milan,  Bologna, 
and  Genoa,  in  alliance  with  the  Pope  ;  the  Imperial  or  Ghibel- 
line  towns  were,  Padua  and  Verona  under  Ezzelin ;  Mantua, 
Pisa,  and  Siena.  I  do  not  name  the  minor  towns  of  north 
Italy  which  associated  themselves  with  each  party  :  get  only 
the  main  localities  of  the  contest  well  into  your  minds.  It  was 
all  concentrated  in  the  furious  hostility  of  Genoa  and  Pisa ; 
Genoa  righting  really  very  piously  for  the  Pope,  as  well  as  for 
herself ;  Pisa  for  her  own  hand,  and  for  the  Emperor  as 
much  as  suited  her.  The  mad  little  sea  falcon  never  caught 
sight  of  another  water-bird  on  the  wing,  but  she  must  hawk  at 
it ;  and  as  an  ally  of  the  Emperor,  balanced  Venice  and 
Genoa  with  her  single  strength.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that 
the  victory  of  either  the  Guelph  or  Ghibelline  party  depended 
on  the  final  action  of  Florence. 

97.  Florence  meanwhile  was  fighting  with  herself,  for  her 
own  amusement.  She  was  nominally  at  the  head  of  the 
Guelphic  League  in  Tuscany ;  but  this  only  meant  that  she 
hated  Siena  and  Pisa,  her  southern  and  western  neighbours. 
She  had  never  declared  openly  against  the  Emperor.  On  the 
contrary,  she  always  recognized  his  authority,  in  an  imagina- 
tive manner,  as  representing  that  of  the  Caesars.  She  spent 
her  own  energy  chiefly  in  street-fighting, — the  death  of 
Buondelmonti  in  1215  having  been  the  root  of  a  series  of 
quarrels  among  her  nobles  which  gradually  took  the  form  of 
contests  of  honour  ;  and  were  a  kind  of  accidental  tournaments, 
fought  to  the  death,  because  they  could  not  be  exciting  or 
dignified  enough  on  any  other  condition.  And  thus  the  man- 
ner of  life  came  to  be  customary,  which  you  have  accurately, 
with  its  consequences,  pictured  by  Shakspeare.  Samson  bites 
his  thumb  at  Abraham,  and  presently  the  streets  are  impas- 
sable in  battle.  The  quarrel  in  the  Canongate  between  the 
Leslies  and  Seytons,  in  Scott  s  'Abbot/  represents  the  same 


282 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


temper ;  and  marks  also,  what  Shakspeare  did  not  so  distinctly, 
because  it  would  have  interfered  with  the  domestic  character 
of  his  play,  the  connection  of  these  private  quarrels  with 
political  divisions  which  paralyzed  the  entire  body  of  the 
State. — Yet  these  political  schisms,  in  the  earlier  days  of  Italy, 
never  reached  the  bitterness  of  Scottish  feud,*  because  they 
were  never  so  sincere.  Protestant  and  Catholic  Scotsmen 
faithfully  believed  each  other  to  be  servants  of  the  devil ;  but 
the  Guelph  and  Ghibelline  of  Florence  each  respected,  in 
the  other,  the  fidelity  to  the  Emperor,  or  piety  towards 
the  Pope,  which  he  found  it  convenient,  for  the  time, 
to  dispense  with  in  his  own  person.  The  street  fighting 
was  therefore  more  general,  more  chivalric,  more  good- 
humoured  ;  a  word  of  offence  set  all  the  noblesse  of  the  town 
on  fire  ;  every  one  rallied  to  his  post ;  fighting  began  at 
once  in  half  a  dozen  places  of  recognized  convenience,  but 
ended  in  the  evening  ;  and,  on  the  following  day,  the  leaders 
determined  in  contended  truce  who  had  fought  best,  buried 
their  dead  triumphantly,  and  better  fortified  any  weak  points, 
which  the  events  of  the  previous  day  had  exposed  at  their 
palace  corners.  Florentine  dispute  was  apt  to  centre  itself 
about  the  gate  of  St.  Peter,  f  the  tower  of  the  cathedral,  or 
the  fortress-palace  of  the  TJberti,  (the  family  of  Dante's  Bel- 
lincion  Berti  and  of  Farinata),  which  occupied  the  site  of  the 
present  Palazzo  Vecchio.  But  the  streets  of  Siena  seem  to 
have  afforded  better  barricade  practice.  They  are  as  steep  as 
they  are  narrow — extremely  both  ;  and  the  projecting  stones 
on  their  palace  fronts,  which  were  left,  in  building,  to  sustain, 
on  occasion,  the  barricade  beams  across  the  streets,  are  to  this 
day  important  features  in  their  architecture. 

98.  Such  being  the  general  state  of  matters  in  Florence,  in 
this  year  1248,  Frederick  writes  to  the  Uberti,  who  headed 
the  Ghibellines,  to  engage  them  in  serious  effort  to  bring  the 

*  Distinguish  always  the  personal  from  the  religious  feud ;  personal 
feud  is  more  treacherous  and  violent  in  Italy  than  in  Scotland ;  but 
not  the  political  or  religious  feud,  unless  involved  with  vast  material 
interests. 

f  Sismondi,  vol,  ii.  ,  chap.  ii.  ;  Gr.  Villani,  vi.,  33. 


PARTED  PER  PALE. 


283 


city  distinctly  to  the  Imperial  side.  He  was  besieging  Parma  ; 
and  sent  his  natural  son,  Frederick,  king  of  Antioch,  with 
sixteen  hundred  German  knights,  to  give  the  Ghibellines 
assured  preponderance  in  the  next  quarrel. 

The  Uberti  took  arms  before  their  arrival ;  rallied  all  their 
Ghibeliine  friends  into  a  united  body,  and  so  attacked  and 
carried  the  Guelph  barricades,  one  by  one,  till  their  antago- 
nists, driven  together  by  local  defeat,  stood  in  consistency  as 
complete  as  their  own,  by  the  gate  of  St.  Peter,  'Scherag- 
gio.'  Young  Frederick,  with  his  German  riders,  arrived  at 
this  crisis  ;  the  Ghibellines  opening  the  gates  to  him  ;  the 
Guelphs,  nevertheless,  fought  at  their  outmost  barricade  for 
four  days  more  ;  but  at  last,  tired,  withdrew  from  the  city,  in 
a  body,  on  the  night  of  Candlemas,  2nd  February,  1248  ; 
leaving  the  Ghibellines  and  their  German  friends  to  work  their 
pleasure, — who  immediately  set  themselves  to  throw  down  the 
Guelph  palaces,  and  destroyed  six-and-thirty  of  them,  towers 
and  all,  with  the  good  help  of  Niccola  Pisano, — for  this  is  the 
occasion  of  that  beautiful  piece  of  new  engineering  of  his. 

99.  It  is  the  first  interference  of  the  Germans  in  Floren- 
tine affairs  which  belongs  to  the  real  cycle  of  modern  history. 
Six  hundred  years  later,  a  troop  of  German  riders  entered 
Florence  again,  to  restore  its  Grand  Duke  ;  and  our  warm- 
hearted and  loving  English  poetess,  looking  on  from  Casa 
Guidi  windows,  gives  the  said  Germans  many  hard  words, 
and  thinks  her  darling  Florentines  entirely  innocent  in  the 
matter.  But  if  she  had  had  clear  eyes,  (yeux  de  lin  *  the 
Romance  of  the  Rose  calls  them,)  she  would  have  seen  that 
white-coated  cavalry  with  its  heavy  guns  to  be  nothing  more 
than  the  rear-guard  of  young  Frederick  of  Antioch  ;  and  that 
Florence's  own  Ghibellines  had  opened  her  gates  to  them. 
Destiny  little  regards  cost  of  time  ;  she  does  her  justice  at 
that  telescopic  distance  just  as  easily  and  accurately  as  close 
at  hand. 

100.  "  Frederick  of  Antioch"  Note  the  titular  coincidence. 
The  disciples  were  called  Christians  first  in  Antioch  ;  here  we 
have  our  lieutenant  of  Antichrist  also  named  from  that  town. 

*  Lynx. 


284 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


The  anti-Christian  Germans  got  into  Florence  upon  Sunday 
morning  ;  the  Guelphs  fought  on  till  Wednesday,  which  was 
Candlemas ; — the  Tower  of  the  Death-watch  was  thrown 
down  next  day.  It  was  so  called  because  it  stood  on  the 
Piazza  of  St.  John  ;  and  all  dying  people  in  Florence  called 
on  St.  John  for  help  ;  and  looked,  if  it  might  be,  to  the  top  of 
this  highest  and  best-built  of  towers.  The  wicked  anti- 
Christian  Ghibellines,  Nicholas  of  Pisa  helping,  cut  the  side 
of  it  "  so  that  the  tower  might  fall  on  the  Baptistery.  But  as 
it  pleased  God,  for  better  reverencing  of  the  blessed  St.  John, 
the  tower,  which  was  a  hundred  and  eighty  feet  high,  as  it  was 
coming  down,  plainly  appeared  to  eschew  the  holy  church, 
and  turned  aside,  and  fell  right  across  the  square  ;  at  which 
all  the  Florentines  marvelled,  (pious  or  impious,)  and  the 
people  (anti-Ghibelline)  were  greatly  delighted." 

101.  I  have  no  doubt  that  this  story  is  apocryphal,  not  only 
in  its  attribution  of  these  religious  scruples  to  the  falling 
tower ;  but  in  its  accusation  of  the  Ghibellines  as  having 
definitely  intended  the  destruction  of  the  Baptistery.  It  is 
only  modern  reformers  who  feel  the  absolute  need  of  enforc- 
ing their  religious  opinions  in  so  practical  a  manner.  Such  a 
piece  of  sacrilege  would  have  been  revolting  to  Farinata  ;  how 
much  more  to  the  group  of  Florentines  whose  temper  is  cen- 
trally represented  by  D.mte's,  to  all  of  whom  their  "bel  San 
Giovanni  "  was  dear,  at  least  for  its  beauty,  if  not  for  its  sanc- 
tity. And  Niccola  himself  was  too  good  a  workman  to  be- 
come the  instrument  of  the  destruction  of  so  noble  a  work, — ■ 
not  to  insist  on  the  extreme  probability  that  he  was  also  too 
good  an  engineer  to  have  had  his  purpose,  if  once  fixed, 
thwarted  by  any  tenderness  in  the  conscience  of  the  collaps- 
ing tower.  The  tradition  itself  probably  arose  after  the  rage 
of  the  exiled  Ghibellines  had  half  consented  to  the  destruction, 
on  political  grounds,  of  Florence  itself ;  but  the  form  it  took 
is  of  extreme  historical  value,  indicating  thus  early  at  least 
the  suspected  existence  of  passions  like  those  of  the  Crom- 
wellian  or  Garibaldian  soldiery  in  the  Florentine  noble  ;  and 
the  distinct  character  of  the  Ghibelline  party  as  not  only  anti- 
Papal,  but  profane. 


PARTED  PER  PALE. 


285 


102.  Upon  the  castles,  and  the  persons  of  their  antagonists, 
however,  the  pride,  or  fear,  of  the  Ghibellines  had  little  mercy  ; 
and  in  their  day  of  triumph  they  provoked  against  themselves 
nearly  every  rational  as  well  as  religious  person  in  the  com- 
monwealth. They  despised  too  much  the  force  of  the  newly- 
risen  popular  powTer,  founded  on  economy,  sobriety,  and 
common  sense  ;  and,  alike  by  impertinence  and  pillage,  in- 
creased the  irritation  of  the  civil  body  ;  until,  as  aforesaid,  on 
the  20th  October,  1250,  all  the  rich  burgesses  of  Florence 
took  arms  ;  met  in  the  square  before  the  church  of  Santa 
Croce,  ("where,"  says  Sismondi,  "  the  republic  of  the  dead  i3 
still  assembled  to-day,")  thence  traversed  the  city  to  the  pal- 
ace of  the  Ghibelline  podesta ;  forced  him  to  resign  ;  named 
Uberto  of  Lucca  in  his  place,  under  the  title  of  Captain  of  the 
People  ;  divided  themselves  into  twenty  companies,  each,  in 
its  own  district  of  the  city,  having  its  captain*  and  standard  ; 
and  elected  a  council  of  twelve  ancients,  constituting 
a  seniory  or  signoria,  to  deliberate  on  and  direct  public 
affairs. 

103.  What  a  perfectly  beautiful  republican  movement ! 
thinks  Sismondi,  seeing,  in  all  this,  nothing  but  the  energy  of 
a  multitude ;  and  entirely  ignoring  the  peculiar  capacity  of 
this  Florentine  mob, — capacity  of  two  virtues,  much  forgotten 
by  modern  republicanism, — order,  namely  ;  and  obedience  ; 
together  with  the  peculiar  instinct  of  this  Florentine  multi- 
tude, which  not  only  felt  itself  to  need  captains,  but  knew 
where  to  find  them. 

104.  Hubert  of  Lucca — How  came  they,  think  you,  to  choose 
him  out  of  a  stranger  city,  and  that  a  poorer  one  than  their 
own  ?  Was  there  no  Florentine  then,  of  all  this  rich  and 
eager  crowd,  who  was  fit  to  govern  Florence  ? 

I  cannot  find  any  account  of  this  Hubert,  Bright  mind,  of 
Dacca  ;  Villani  says  simply  of  him,  "  Fu  il  primo  capitano  di 
Firenze." 

They  hung  a  bell  for  him  in  the  Campanile  of  the  Lion, 
and  gave  him  the  flag  of  Florence  to  bear ;  and  before  the 

*  'Corporal,'  literally. 


28G 


VAL  I)  'ARNO. 


day  was  over,  that  20th  of  October,  lie  had  given  every  one  of 
the  twenty  companies  their  flags  also.  And  the  bearings  of 
the  said  gonfalons  were  these.  I  will  give  you  this  heraldry 
as  far  as  I  can  make  it  out  from  Villani  ;  it  will  be  very  useful 
to  us  afterwards  ;  I  leave  the  Italian  when  I  cannot  translate 
it:— 

105.  A.  Sesto,  (sixth  part  of  the  city,)  of  the  other  side  of 
Arno. 

Gonfalon  1.  Gules  ;  a  ladder,  argent. 

2.  Argent ;  a  scourge,  sable. 

3.  Azure  ;  (una  piazza  bianca  con 

nicchi  vermigli). 

4.  Gules  ;  a  dragon,  vert. 

B.  Sesto  of  St.  Peter  Scheraggio. 

1.  Azure  ;  a  chariot,  or. 

2.  Or  ;  a  bull,  sable. 

3.  Argent ;  a  lion  rampant,  sable. 

4.  (A  lively  piece,  "pezza  gag- 

liarda " )  Barry  of  (how 
many?)  pieces,  argent  and 
sable. 

You  may  as  well  note  at  once  of  this  kind  of  bearing,  called 
c  gagliarda  '  by  Villani,  that  these  groups  of  piles,  pales,  bends, 
and  bars,  were  called  in  English  heraldry  'Restrial  bearings,' 
"  in  respect  of  their  strength  and  solid  substance,  which  is 
able  to  abide  the  stresse  and  force  of  any  triall  they  shall  be 
put  unto."  *  And  also  that,  the  number  of  bars  being  uncer- 
tain, I  assume  the  bearing  to  be  '  barry/  that  is,  having  an 
even  number  of  bars ;  had  it  been  odd,  as  of  seven  bars,  it 
should  have  been  blazoned,  argent ;  three  bars,  sable  ;  or,  if 
so  divided,  sable,  three  bars  argent. 

This  lively  bearing  was  St.  Pulinari's. 

*  Guillim,  seek  ii. ,  chap.  3. 


PARTED  PER  PALE. 


287 


0.  Sesto  of  Borgo. 

1.  Or  ;  a  viper,  vert. 

2.  Argent ;  a  needle,  (?)  (agu- 

glia)  sable. 

3.  Vert  ;   a  horse   unbridled  : 

draped,  argent,  a  cross, 
gules. 

D.  Sesto  of  St.  Brancazio. 

1.  Vert ;  a  lion  rampant,  proper. 

2.  Argent;  a  lion  rampant,  gules. 

3.  Azure;  a  lion  rampant,  argent. 

E.  Sesto  of  the  Cathedral  gates. 

1.  Azure  ;  a  lion  (passant  ?)  or. 

2.  Or ;  a  dragon,  vert. 

3.  Argent  ;    a    lion  rampant, 

azure,  crowned,  or. 

F.  Sesto  of  St.  Peter's  gates. 

1.  Or ;  two  keys,  gules. 

2.  An  Italian  (or  more  definitely 

a  Greek  and  Etruscan  bear- 
ing ;  I  do  not  know  how  to 
blazon  it;)  concentric  bands, 
argent  and  sable.  This  is 
one  of  the  remains  of  the 
Greek  expressions  of  storm  ; 
hail,  or  the  Trinacrian  limbs, 
being  put  on  the  giant's 
shields  also.  It  is  connected 
besides  wtih  the  Cretan 
labyrinth,  and  the  circles  of 
the  Inferno. 

3.  Parted  per  fesse,  gules  and 

vai  (I  don't  know  if  vai 
means  grey — not  a  proper 
heraldic  colour — or  vaire)Q 


288 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


100.  Of  course  Hubert  of  Lucca  did  not  determine  these 
bearings,  but  took  them  as  he  found  them,  and  appointed 
them  for  standards  ;  *  he  did  the  same  for  all  the  country  par- 
ishes, and  ordered  them  to  come  into  the  city  at  need.  "And 
in  this  manner  the  old  people  of  Florence  ordered  itself  ;  and 
for  more  strength  of  the  people,  they  ordered  and  began  to 
build  the  palace  which  is  behind  the  Badia, — that  is  to  say, 
the  one  which  is  of  dressed  stone,  with  the  tower  ;  for  before 
there  was  no  palace  of  the  commune  in  Florence,  but  the  sign- 
ory  abode  sometimes  in  one  part  of  the  town,  sometimes  in 
another. 

107.  "And  as  the  people  had  now  taken  state  and  signory 
on  themselves,  they  ordered,  for  greater  strength  of  the  peo- 
ple, that  all  the  towers  of  Florence — and  there  were  many  180 
feet  high  f — should  be  cut  down  to  75  feet,  and  no  more;  and 
so  it  was  done,  and  with  the  stones  of  them  they  walled  the 
city  on  the  other  side  Arno." 

108.  That  last  sentence  is  a  significant  one.  Here  is  the 
central  expression  of  the  true  burgess  or  townsman  temper, — 
resolute  maintenance  of  fortified  peace.  These  are  the  walls 
which  modern  republicanism  throws  down,  to  make  boulevards 
over  their  ruins. 

109.  Such  new  order  being  taken,  Florence  remained  quiet 
fOY — fun  two  months.  On  the  13th  of  December,  in  the  same 
year,  died  the  Emperor  Frederick  II ;  news  of  his  death  did 
not  reach  Florence  till  the  7th  January,  1251.  It  had  chanced, 
according  to  Villani,  that  on  the  actual  day  of  his  death,  his 
Florentine  vice-regent,  Kinieri  of  Montemerlo,  was  killed  by 
a  piece  of  the  vaulting  J  of  his  room  falling  on  him  as  he 
slept.  And  when  the  people  heard  of  the  Emperor's  death, 
"which  was  most  useful  and  needful  for  Holy  Church,  and 
for  our  commune,"  they  took  the  fall  of  the  roof  on  his  lieu- 
tenant as  an  omen  of  the  extinction  of  Imperial  authority,  and 
resolved  to  bring  home  all  their  Guelphic  exiles,  and  that  the 

*  We  will  examine  afterwards  the  heraldry  of  the  trades,  chap,  xi., 
Villani. 

f  120  braccia. 

\  4 4  Una  volta  ch'  era  sopra  la  camera. n 


PARTED  PER  PALE. 


289 


Griiibellines  should  be  forced  to  make  peace  with  them.  Which 
was  done,  and  the  peace  really  lasted  for  full  six  months  ; 
when,  a  quarrel  chancing  with  Ghibelline  Pistoja,  the  Floren- 
tines, under  a  Milanese  podesta,  fought  their  first  properly 
communal  and  commercial  battle,  with  great  slaughter  of  Pis- 
tojese.  Naturally  enough,  but  very  unwisely,  the  Florentine 
Ghibellines  declined  to  take  part  in  this  battle  ;  whereupon 
the  people,  returning  flushed  with  victoiy,  drove  them  all  out, 
and  established  pure  Guelph  government  in  Florence,  chang- 
ing at  the  same  time  the  flag  of  the  city  from  gules,  a  lily 
argent,  to  argent,  a  lily  gules  ;  but  the  most  ancient  bearing 
of  all,  simply  parted  per  pale,  argent  and  gules,  remained 
always  on  their  carroccio  of  battle, — "Non  si  muto  mai." 

110.  "Non  si  muto  mai."  Villain  did  not  know  how  true 
his  words  were.  That  old  shield  of  Florence,  parted  per  pale, 
argent  and  gules,  (or  our  own  Saxon  Oswald's,  parted  per 
pale,  or  and  purpure,)  are  heraldry  changeless  in  sign  ;  declar- 
ing the  necessary  balance,  in  ruling  men,  of  the  Rational  and 
Imaginative  powers  ;  pure  Alp,  and  glowing  cloud. 

Church  and  State — Pope  and  Emperor — Clergy  and  Laity, 
: — all  these  are  partial,  accidental — too  often,  criminal — oppo- 
sitions ;  but  the  bodily  and  spiritual  elements,  seemingly 
adverse,  remain  in  everlasting  harmony, 

Not  less  the  new  bearing  of  the  shield,  the  red  fleur-de-lys, 
has  another  meaning.  It  is  red,  not  as  ecclesiastical,  but  as 
free.  Not  of  Guelph  against  Ghibelline,  but  of  Labourer 
against  Knight.  No  more  his  serf,  but  his  minister.  His  duty 
no  more  £servitium,'  but  'ministerium,'  'mestier.'  We  learn 
the  power  of  word  after  word,  as  of  sign  after  sign,  as  we  fol- 
low the  traces  of  this  nascent  art.  I  have  sketched  for  you 
this  lily  from  the  base  of  the  tower  of  Giotto.  You  may  judge 
by  the  subjects  of  the  sculpture  beside  it  that  it  was  built  just 
in  this  fit  of  commercial  triumph  ;  for  all  the  outer  ba€-reliefs 
are  of  trades. 

111.  Draw  that  red  lily  then,  and  fix  it  in  your  minds  as 
the  sign  of  the  great  change  in  the  temper  of  Florence,  and 
in  her  laws,  in  mid- thirteenth  century  ;  and  remember  also, 
when  you  go  to  Florence  and  see  that  mighty  tower  of  the 


290 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


Palazzo  Vecchio  (noble  still,  in  spite  of  the  calamitous  and 
accursed  restorations  which  have  smoothed  its  rugged  out* 
line,  and  effaced  with  modern  vulgarisms  its  lovely  sculpture) 
— terminating  the  shadowy  perspectives  of  the  Uffizii,  or 
dominant  over  the  city  seen  from  Fesole  or  Bellosguardo, — 
that,  as  the  tower  of  Giotto  is  the  notablest  monument  in  the 
world  of  the  Keligion  of  Europe,  so,  on  this  tower  of  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio,  first  shook  itself  to  the  winds  the  Lily  stan- 
dard of  her  liberal, — because  honest, — commerce. 


LECTURE  V. 

PAX  VOBISCUM. 

112.  My  last  lecture  ended  with  a  sentence  which  I  thought, 
myself,  rather  pretty,  and  quite  fit  for  a  popular  newspaper, 
about  the  '  lily  standard  of  liberal  commerce. '  But  it  might 
occur,  and  I  hope  did  occur,  to  some  of  you,  that  it  would 
have  been  more  appropriate  if  the  lily  had  changed  colour 
the  other  way,  from  red  to  white,  (instead  of  white  to  red,)  as 
a  sign  of  a  pacific  constitution  and  kindly  national  purpose. 

113.  I  believe  otherwise,  however;  and  although  the  change 
itself  was  for  the  sake  of  change  merely,  you  may  see  in  it,  I 
think,  one  of  the  historical  coincidences  which  contain  true 
instruction  for  us. 

Quite  one  of  the  chiefest  art-mistakes  and  stupidities  of 
men  has  been  their  tendency  to  dress  soldiers  in  red  clothes, 
and  monks,  or  pacific  persons,  in  black,  white,  or  grey  ones. 
At  least  half  of  that  mental  bias  of  young  people,  which  sus- 
tains the  wickedness  of  war  among  us  at  this  day,  is  owing  to 
the  prettiness  of  uniforms.  Make  all  Hussars  black,  all 
Guards  black,  all  troops  of  the  line  black  ;  dress  officers  and 
men,  alike,  as  you  would  public  executioners  ;  and  the  num- 
ber of  candidates  for  commissions  will  be  greatly  diminished. 
Habitually,  on  the  contrary,  you  dress  these  destructive 
rustics  and  their  officers  in  scarlet  and  gold,  but  give  your 
productive  rustics  no  costume  of  honour  or  beauty ;  you  give 


PAX  VOBISCUM. 


291 


your  peaceful  student  a  costume  which  he  tucks  up  to  his 
waist,  because  he  is  ashamed  of  it ;  and  dress  your  pious 
rectors,  and  your  sisters  of  charity,  in  black,  as  if  it  were  their 
trade  instead  of  the  soldier's  to  send  people  to  hell,  and  their 
own  destiny  to  arrive  there. 

114.  Bat  the  investiture  of  the  lily  of  Florence  with  scarlet 
is  a  symbol, — unintentional,  observe,  but  not  the  less  notable, 
— of  the  recovery  of  human  sense  and  intelligence  in  this 
matter.  The  reign  of  war  was  past ;  this  was  the  sign  of  it ; 
— the  red  glow,  not  now  of  the  Towers  of  Dis,  but  of  the 
Carita,  "  che  appena  fora  dentro  al  fuoco  nota."  And  a  day 
is  coming,  be  assured,  when  the  kings  of  Europe  will  dress 
their  peaceful  troops  beautifully  ;  will  clothe  their  peasant 
girls  "in  scarlet,  with  other  delights,"  and  "put  on  orna- 
ments of  gold  upon  their  apparel  ; n  when  the  crocus  and  the 
lily  will  not  be  the  only  living  things  dressed  daintily  in  our 
land,  and  the  glory  of  the  wisest  monarchs  be  indeed,  in  that 
their  people,  like  themselves,  shall  be,  at  least  in  some  dim 
likeness,  "  arrayed  like  one  of  these." 

115.  But  as  for  the  immediate  behaviour  of  Florence  her- 
self, with  her  new  standard,  its  colour  was  quite  sufficiently 
significant  in  that  old  symbolism,  when  the  first  restrial  bear- 
ing was  drawn  by  dying  fingers  dipped  in  blood.  The  Guelph- 
ic  revolution  had  put  her  into  definite  political  opposition 
with  her  nearest,  and  therefore, — according  to  the  custom 
and  Christianity  of  the  time, — her  hatefullest,  neighbours, — 
Pistoja,  Pisa,  Siena,  and  Volterra.  What  glory  might  not  be 
acquired,  what  kind  purposes  answered,  by  making  pacific 
mercantile  states  also  of  those  benighted  towns !  Besides, 
the  death  of  the  Emperor  had  thrown  his  party  everywhere 
into  discouragement  ;  and  what  was  the  use  of  a  flag  which 
flew  no  farther  than  over  the  new  palazzo  ? 

116.  Accordingly,  in  the  next  year,  the  pacific  Florentines 
began  by  ravaging  the  territory  of  Pistoja  ;  then  attacked  the 
Pisans  at  Pontadera,  and  took  3000  prisoners  ;  and  finished 
by  traversing,  and  eating  up  all  that  could  be  ate  in,  the 
country  of  Siena  ;  besides  beating  the  Sienese  under  the 
castle  of  Montalcino.  Returning  in  triumph  after  these  benev- 


292 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


olent  operations,  they  resolved  to  strike  a  new  piece  of 
money  in  memory  of  them, — the  golden  Florin  ! 

117.  This  coin  I  have  placed  in  your  room  of  study,  to  be 
the  first  of  the  series  of  coins  which  I  hope  to  arrange  for 
you,  not  chronologically,  but  for  the  various  interest,  whether 
as  regards  art  or  history,  which  they  should  possess  in  your 
general  studies.  "The  Florin  of  Florence,"  (says  Sismondi), 
"through  all  the  monetary  revolutions  of  all  neighbouring 
countries,  and  while  the  bad  faith  of  governments  adulterated 
their  coin  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  has  always 
remained  the  same  ;  it  is,  to-day,"  (I  don't  know  when, 
exactly,  he  wrote  this, — but  it  doesn't  matter),  "  of  the  same 
weight,  and  bears  the  same  name  and  the  same  stamp,  which 
it  did  when  it  was  struck  in  1252."  It  was  gold  of  the  purest 
title  (24  carats),  weighed  the  eighth  of  an  ounce,  and  carried, 
as  you  see,  on  one  side  the  image  of  St.  John  Baptist,  on  the 
other  the  Fleur-de-lys.  It  is  the  coin  which  Chaucer  takes 
for  the  best  representation  of  beautiful  money  in  the  Par- 
doner's Tale  :  this,  in  his  judgment,  is  the  fairest  mask  of 
Death.  Villani's  relation  of  its  moral  and  commercial  effect 
at  Tunis  is  worth  translating,  being  in  the  substance  of  it,  I 
doubt  not,  true. 

118.  "And  these  new  florins  beginning  to  scatter  through 
the  world,  some  of  them  got  to  Tunis,  in  Barbary  ;  and  the 
King  of  Tunis,  who  was  a  worthy  and  wise  lord,  was  greatly 
pleased  with  them,  and  had  them  tested  ;  and  finding  them 
of  fine  gold,  he  praised  them  much,  and  had  the  legend  on 
them  interpreted  to  him, — to  wit,  on  one  side  '  St.  John  Bap- 
tist/ on  the  other  'Florentia.'  So  seeing  they  were  pieces  of 
Christian  money,  he  sent  for  the  Pisan  merchants,  who  were 
free  of  his  port,  and  much  before  the  King  (and  also  the 
Florentines  traded  in  Tunis  through  Pisan  agents), — [see 
these  hot  little  Pisans,  how  they  are  first  everywhere,] — and 
asked  of  them  what  city  it  was  among  the  Christians  which 
made  the  said  florins.  And  the  Pisans  answered  in  spite  and 
envy,  '  They  are  our  land  Arabs.'  The  King  answered  wisely, 
"  It  does  not  appear  to  me  Arab's  money  ;  you  Pisans,  what 
golden  money  have  you  got  ? "    Then  they  were  confused, 


PAX  VOBISCUM. 


293 


and  knew  not  what  to  answer.  So  he  asked  if  there  was  any 
Florentine  among  them.  And  there  was  found  a  merchant 
from  the  other-side-Arno,  by  name  Peter  Balducci,  discreet 
and  wise.  The  King  asked  him  of  the  state  and  being  of 
Florence,  of  which  the  Pisans  made  their  Arabs, — who  an- 
swered him  wisely,  showing  the  power  and  magnificence  of 
Florence;  and  how  Pisa,  in  comparison,  was  not,  either  in 
land  or  people,  the  half  of  Florence  ;  and  that  they  had  no 
golden  money  ;  and  that  the  gold  of  which  those  florins  had 
been  made  was  gained  by  the  Florentines  above  and  beyond 
them,  by  many  victories.  Wherefore  the  said  Pisans  were 
put  to  shame,  and  the  King,  both  by  reason  of  the  florin,  and 
for  the  words  of  our  wise  citizen,  made  the  Florentines  free, 
and  appointed  for  them  their  own  Fondaco,  and  church,  in 
Tunis,  and  gave  them  privileges  like  the  Pisans.  And  this 
we  know  for  a  truth  from  the  same  Peter,  having  been  in 
company  with  him  at  the  office  of  the  Priors." 

119.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  the  value  of  the  piece  was  at 
this  time  :  the  sentence  with  which  Sismoncli  concludes  his 
account  of  it  'being  only  useful  as  an  example  of  the  total 
ignorance  of  the  laws  of  currency  in  which  many  even  of  the 
best  educated  persons  at  the  present  day  remain. 

"Its  value,"  he  says  always  the  same,  "answers  to  eleven 
francs  forty  centimes  of  France." 

But  all  that  can  be  scientifically  said  of  any  piece  of  money 
is  that  it  contains  a  given  weight  of  a  given  metal.  Its  value 
in  other  coins,  other  metals,  or  other  general  produce,  varies 
not  only  from  day  to  da}*,  but  from  instant  to  instant. 

120.  With  this  coin  of  Florence  ought  in  justice  to  be 
ranked  the  Venetian  zecchin  ;  *  but  of  it  I  can  only  thus  give 
you  account  in  another  place, — for  I  must  at  once  go  on  now 
to  tell  you  the  first  use  I  find  recorded,  as  being  made  by  the 
Florentines  of  their  new  money. 

They  pursued  in  the  years  1253  and  1254  their  energetic 
promulgation  of  peace.    They  ravaged  the  lands  of  Pistoja  so 

*  In  connection  with  the  Pisans1  insulting  intention  by  their  term  of 
Arabs,  remember  that  the  Venetian  'zecca,'  (mint)  came  from  the 
Arabic  'sehk,'  the  steel  die  nsed  in  coinage. 


204 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


often,  that  the  Pistojese  submitted  themselves,  on  condition 
of  receiving  back  their  Guelph  exiles,  and  admitting  a  Flor- 
entine garrison  into  Pistoja.  Next  they  attacked  Monte 
Reggione,  the  March-fortress  of  the  Sienese  ;  and  pressed  it 
so  vigorously  that  Siena  was  fain  to  make  peace  too,  on  con- 
dition of  ceasing  her  alliance  with  the  Ghibellines.  Next 
they  ravaged  the  territory  of  Volterra :  the  townspeople,  con- 
fident in  the  strength  of  their  rock  fortress,  came  out  to  give 
battle  ;  the  Florentines  beat  them  up  the  hill,  and  entered 
the  town  gates  with  the  fugitives. 

121.  And,  for  note  to  this  sentence,  in  my  long-since-read 
volume  of  Sismondi,  I  find  a  cross-fleury  at  the  bottom  of  the 
page,  with  the  date  1254  underneath  it ;  meaning  that  I  was 
to  remember  that  year  as  the  beginning  of  Christian  warfare. 
For  little  as  you  may  think  it,  and  grotesquely  opposed  as 
this  ravaging  of  their  neighbours'  territories  may  seem  to  their 
pacific  mission,  this  Florentine  army  is  fighting  in  absolute 
good  faith.  Partly  self-deceived,  indeed,  by  their  own  am- 
bition, and  by  their  fiery  natures,  rejoicing  in  the  excitement 
of  battle,  they  have  nevertheless,  in  this  their  "  year  of  vic- 
tories,"— so  they  ever  afterwards  called  it, — no  occult  or 
malignant  purpose.  At  least,  whatever  is  occult  or  malignant 
is  also  unconscious  ;  not  now  in  cruel,  but  in  kindly  jealousy 
of  their  neighbours,  and  in  a  true  desire  to  communicate  and 
extend  to  them  the  privileges  of  their  own  new  artizan  gov- 
ernment, the  Trades  of  Florence  have  taken  arms.  They  are 
justly  proud  of  themselves  ;  rightly  assured  of  the  wisdom  of 
the  change  they  have  made  ;  true  to  each  other  for  the  time, 
and  confident  in  the  future.  No  army  ever  fought  in  better 
cause,  or  with  more  united  heart.  And  accordingly  they  meet 
with  no  check,  and  commit  no  error  ;  from  tower  to  tower  of 
the  field  fortresses, — from  gate  to  gate  of  the  great  cities,— 
they  march  in  one  continuous  and  daily  more  splendid  tri- 
umph, yet  in  gentle  and  perfect  discipline  ;  and  now,  when 
they  have  entered  Volterra  with  her  fugitives,  after  stress  of 
battle,  not  a  drop  of  blood  is  shed,  nor  a  single  house  pillaged, 
nor  is  any  other  condition  of  peace  required  than  the  exile  of 
the  Ghibelline  nobles.    You  may  remember,  as  a  symbol  of 


PAX  V0B1SCUM. 


295 


the  influence  of  Christianity  in  this  result,  that  the  Bishop  of 
Volterra,  with  his  clergy,  came  out  in  procession  to  meet  them 
as  they  began  to  run  *  the  streets,  and  obtained  this  mercy  ; 
else  the  old  habits  of  pillage  would  have  prevailed. 

122.  And  from  Volterra,  the  Florentine  army  entered  on 
the  territory  of  Pisa  ;  and  now  with  so  high  prestige,  that  the 
Pisans  at  once  sent  ambassadors  to  them  with  keys  in  their 
hands,  in  token  of  submission.  And  the  Florentines  made 
peace  with  them,  on  condition  that  the  Pisans  should  let  the 
Florentine  merchandize  pass  in  and  out  without  tax  ; — should 
use  the  same  weights  as  Florence, — the  same  cloth  measure, 
— and  the  same  alloy  of  money. 

123.  You  see  that  Mr.  Adam  Smith  was  not  altogether  the 
originator  of  the  idea  of  free  trade  ;  and  six  hundred  years 
have  passed  without  bringing  Europe  generally  to  the  degree 
of  mercantile  intelligence,  as  to  weights  and  currency,  which 
Florence  had  in  her  year  of  victories. 

The  Pisans  broke  this  peace  two  years  afterwards,  to  help 
the  Emperor  Manfred  ;  whereupon  the  Florentines  attacked 
them  instantly  again  ;  defeated  them  on  the  Serchio,  near 
Lucca  ;  entered  the  Pisan  territory  by  the  Val  di  Serchio  ; 
and  there,  cutting  down  a  great  pine  tree,  struck  their  florins 
on  the  stump  of  it,  putting,  for  memory,  under  the  feet  of  the 
St.  John,  a  trefoil  "in  guise  of  a  little  tree."  And  note  here 
the  difference  between  artistic  and  mechanical  coinage.  The 
Florentines,  using  pure  gold,  and  thin,  can  strike  their  coin 
anywhere,  with  only  a  wooden  anvil,  and  their  engraver  is 
ready  on  the  instant  to  make  such  change  in  the  stamp  as 
may  record  any  new  triumph.  Consider  the  vigour,  popu- 
larity, pleasantness  of  an  art  of  coinage  thus  ductile  to 
events,  and  easy  in  manipulution. 

124.  It  is  to  be  observed  also  that  a  thin  gold  coinage  like 
that  of  the  English  angel,  and  these  Italian  zecchins,  is  both 
more  convenient  and  prettier  than  the  massive  gold  of  the 
Greeks,  often  so  small  that  it  drops  through  the  fingers,  and, 
if  of  any  size,  inconveniently  large  in  value. 

125.  It  was  in  the  following  year,  1255,  that  the  Florentines 

*Corsona  la  citta  senza  contesto  niuno." — Villani. 


296 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


made  the  noblest  use  of  their  newly  struck  florins,  so  far  as  I 
know,  ever  recorded  in  any  history  ;  and  a  Florentine  citizen 
made  as  noble  refusal  of  them.  You  will  find  the  two  stories 
in  Giovanni  Villain,  Book  6th,  chapters  61,  62.  One  or  two 
important  facts  are  added  by  Sismondi,  but  without  references. 
I  take  his  statement  as  on  the  whole  trustworthy,  using  Vil- 
lain s  authority  wherever  it  reaches  ;  one  or  two  points  I  have 
farther  to  explain  to  you  myself  as  I  go  on. 

126.  The  first  tale  shows  very  curiously  the  mercenary  and 
independent  character  of  warfare,  as  it  now  was  carried  on  by 
the  great  chiefs,  whether  Guelph  or  Ghibelline.  The  Floren- 
tines wanted  to  send  a  troop  of  five  hundred  horse  to  assist 
Orvieto,  a  Guelph  town,  isolated  on  its  rock,  and  at  present 
harrassed  upon  it.  They  gave  command  of  this  troop  to  the 
Knight  Guido  Guerra  de'  Conti  Guidi,  and  he  and  his  riders 
set  out  for  Orvieto  by  the  Umbrian  road,  through  Arezzo, 
which  was  at  peace  with  Florence,  though  a  Ghibelline  town. 
The  Guelph  party  within  the  town  asked  help  from  the  pass- 
ing Florentine  battalion  ;  and  Guido  Guerra,  without  any 
authority  for  such  action,  used  the  troop  of  which  he  was  in 
command  in  their  favour,  and  drove  out  the  Ghibellines.  Sis- 
mondi does  not  notice  what  is  quite  one  of  the  main  points  in 
the  matter,  that  this  troop  of  horse  must  have  been  mainly 
composed  of  Count  Guiclo's  own  retainers,  and  not  of  Floren- 
tine citizens,  who  would  not  have  cared  to  leave  their  business 
on  such  a  far-off  quest  as  this  help  to  Orvieto.  However, 
Arezzo  is  thus  brought  over  to  the  Florentine  interest ;  and 
any  other  Italian  state  would  have  been  sure,  while  it  dis- 
claimed the  Count's  independent  action,  to  keep  the  advantage 
of  it.  Not  so  Florence.  She  is  entirely  resolved,  in  these 
years  of  victory,  to  do  justice  to  all  men  so  far  she  understands 
it ;  and  in  this  case  it  will  give  her  some  trouble  to  do  it,  and 
worse, — cost  her  some  of  her  fine  new  florins.  For  her  counter- 
mandate  is  quite  powerless  with  Guido  Guerra.  He  has  taken 
Arezzo  mainly  with  his  own  men,  and  means  to  stay  there, 
thinking  that  the  Florentines,  if  even  they  do  not  abet  him, 
will  take  no  practical  steps  against  him.  But  he  does  not  know 
this  newly  risen  clan  of  military  merchants,  who  quite  clearly 


PAX    VO  BIS  CUM. 


297 


understand  what  honesty  means,  and  will  put  themselves  out 
of  their  way  to  keep  their  faith.  Florence  calls  out  her  trades 
instantly,  and  with  gules,  a  dragon  vert,  and  or,  a  bull  sable, 
they  march,  themselves,  angrily  up  the  Val  d'Arno,  replace  the 
adverse  Ghibellines  in  Arezzo,  and  send  Master  Guido  de'  Conti 
Guido  about  his  business.  But  the  prettiest  and  most  curious 
part  of  the  whole  story  is  their  equity  even  to  him,  after  he 
had  given  them  all  this  trouble.  They  entirely  recognize  the 
need  he  is  under  of  getting  meat,  somehow,  for  the  mouths  of 
these  five  hundred  riders  of  his  ;  also  they  hold  him  still  their 
friend,  though  an  unmanageable  one  ;  and  admit  with  praise 
what  of  more  or  less  patriotic  and  Guelphic  principle  may  be 
at  the  root  of  his  disobedience.  So  when  he  claims  twelve 
thousand  lire, — roughly,  some  two  thousand  pounds  of  money 
at  present  value, — from  the  Guelphs  of  Arezzo  for  his  service, 
and  the  Guelphs,  having  got  no  good  of  it,  owing  to  this  Flor- 
entine interference,  object  to  paying  him,  the  Florentines 
themselves  lend  them  the  money, — and  are  never  paid  a  far- 
thing of  it  back. 

127.  There  is  a  beautiful  "investment  of  capital  "  for  your 
modern  merchant  to  study  !  No  interest  thought  of,  and  little 
hope  of  ever  getting  back  the  principal.  And  yet  you  will 
find  that  there  were  no  mercantile  "  panics,"  in  Florence  in 
those  days,  nor  failing  bankers,*  nor  £<  clearings  out  of  this 
establishment — any  reasonable  offer  accepted." 

128.  But  the  second  story,  of  a  private  Florentine  citizen, 
is  better  still. 

In  that  campaign  against  Pisa  in  which  the  florins  were 
struck  on  the  root  of  pine,  the  conditions  of  peace  had  been 
ratified  by  the  surrender  to  Florence  of  the  Pisan  fortress  of 
Mutrona,  which  commanded  a  tract  of  seaboard  below  Pisa, 
of  great  importance  for  the  Tuscan  trade.  The  Florentines 
had  stipulated  for  the  right  not  only  of  holding,  but  of  de- 
stroying it,  if  they  chose  ;  and  in  their  Council  of  Ancients, 
after  long  debate,  it  was  determined  to  raze  it,  the  cost  of  its 

*  Some  account  of  the  state  of  modern  British  business  in  this  kind 
will  be  given,  I  hope,  in  some  number  of  "  Fors  Clavigera for  this 
year,  1874. 


298 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


garrison  being  troublesome,  and  the  freedom  of  seaboard  all 
that  the  city  wanted.  But  the  Pisans  feeling  the  power  that 
the  fortress  had  against  them  in  case  of  future  war,  and  doubt- 
ful of  the  issue  of  council  at  Florence,  sent  a  private  negotia- 
tor to  the  member  of  the  Council  of  Ancients  who  was  known 
to  have  most  influence,  though  one  of  the  poorest  of  them, 
Aldobrandino  Ottobuoni  ;  and  offered  him  four  thousand 
golden  florins  if  he  would  get  the  vote  passed  to  raze  Mutrona. 
The  vote  had  passed  the  evening  before.  Aldobrandino  dis- 
missed the  Pisan  ambassador  in  silence,  returned  instantly  into 
the  council,  and  without  saying  anything  of  the  offer  that  had 
been  made  to  him,  got  them  to  reconsider  their  vote,  and 
showTed  them  such  reason  for  keeping  Mutrona  in  its  strength, 
that  the  vote  for  its  destruction  was  rescinded.  ic  And  note 
thou,  oh  reader,"  says  Villain,  "  the  virtue  of  such  a  citizen, 
who,  not  being  rich  in  substance,  had  yet  such  continence  and 
loyalty  for  his  state." 

129.  You  might,  perhaps,  once,  have  thought  me  detaining 
you  needlessly  with  these  historical  details,  little  bearing,  it 
is  commonly  supposed,  on  the  subject  of  art.  But  you  are,  I 
trust,  now  in  some  degree  persuaded  that  no  art,  Florentine 
or  any  other,  can  be  understood  without  knowing  these 
sculptures  and  mouldings  of  the  national  soul.  You  remem- 
ber I  first  begun  this  large  digression  when  it  became  a  ques- 
tion with  us  why  some  of  Giovanni  Pisano's  sepulchral  work  had 
been  destroyed  at  Perugia.  And.  now  we  shall  get  our  first 
gleam  of  light  on  the  matter,  finding  similar  operations  car- 
ried on  in  Florence.  For  a  little  while  after  this  speech  in 
the  Council  of  Ancients,  Aldobrandino  died,  and  the  people, 
at  public  cost,  built  him  a  tomb  of  marble,  %  higher  than  any 
other  "  in  the  church  of  Santa  Beparata,  engraving  on  it  these 
verses,  which  I  leave  you  to  construe,  for  I  cannot : — 

Ferns  est  supremus  Aldobrandino  amoenus. 
Ottoboni  natus,  a  bono  civita  datus. 

Only  I  suppose  the  pretty  word  c  amoenus  '  may  be  taken  as 
marking  the  delightfulness  and  sweetness  of  character  which 
had  won  all  men's  love,  more,  even,  than  their  gratitude. 


PAX  VOBISCUM. 


299 


130.  It  failed  of  its  effect,  however,  on  the  Tuscan  aristo- 
cratic mind.  For,  when,  after  the  battle  of  the  Arbia,  the 
Ghibellines  had  again  their  own  way  in  Florence,  though 
Ottobuoni  had  been  then  dead  three  years,  they  beat  down 
his  tomb,  pulled  the  dead  body  out  of  it,  dragged  it — by  such 
tenure  as  it  might  still  possess — through  the  city,  and  threw 
the  fragments  of  it  into  ditches.  It  is  a  memorable  parallel 
to  the  treatment  of  the  body  of  Cromwell  by  our  own  Cava- 
liers ;  and  indeed  it  seems  to  me  one  of  the  highest  forms 
of  laudatory  epitaph  upon  a  man,  that  his  body  should  be 
thus  torn  from  its  rest.  For  he  can  hardly  have  spent  his  life 
better  than  in  drawing  on  himself  the  kind  of  enmity  which 
can  so  be  gratified  ;  and  for  the  most  loving  of  lawgivers, 
as  of  princes,  the  most  enviable  and  honourable  epitaph  has 
always  been 

6tSe  iroXiTai  avrov  ifj^crovv  avrov.*' 

131.  Not  but  that  pacific  Florence,  in  her  pride  of  victory, 
was  beginning  to  show  unamiableness  of  temper  also,  on  her 
so  equitable  side.  It  is  perhaps  worth  noticing,  for  the  sake 
of  the  name  of  Correggio,  that  in  1257,  when  Matthew  Cor- 
reggio,  of  Parma,  was  the  Podesta  of  Florence,  the  Floren- 
tines determined  to  destroy  the  castle  and  walls  of  Poggi- 
bonzi,  suspected  of  Ghibelline  tendency,  though  the  Poggi- 
bonzi  people  came  with  "  coregge  in  eollo,"  leathern  straps 
round  their  necks,  to  ask  that  their  cattle  might  be  spared. 
And  the  heartburnings  between  the  two  parties  went  on, 
smouldering  hotter  and  hotter,  till  July,  1258,  when  the 
people  having  discovered  secret  dealings  between  the  Uberti 
and  the  Emperor  Manfred,  and  the  Uberti  refusing  to  obey 
citation  to  the  popular  tribunals,  the  trades  ran  to  arms,  at- 
tacked the  Uberti  palace,  killed  a  number  of  their  people,  took 
prisoner,  Uberto  of  the  Uberti,  Hubert  of  the  Huberts,  or 
Bright-mind  of  the  Bright-minds,  with  '  Mangia  degT  Infan- 
gati,  ( c  Gobbler  *  of  the  dirty  ones '  this  knight's  name 

*  At  least,  the  compound  '  Mangia-pane,'  ?  inunch-bread,'  stands  still 
for  a  good-for-nothing  fellow. 


300 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


sounds  like,) — and  after  they  had  confessed  their  guilt,  be- 
headed them  in  St.  Michael's  corn-market ;  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  Uberti  and  Ghibelline  families  were  driven  out  of  Florence, 
and  their  palaces  pulled  down,  and  the  walls  towards  Siena 
built  writh  the  stones  of  them  ;  and  two  months  afterwards, 
the  people  suspecting  the  Abbot  of  Vallombrosa  of  treating 
with  the  Ghibeilines,  took  him,  and  tortured  him  ;  and  he 
confessing  under  torture,  "  at  the  cry  of  the  people,  they  be- 
headed him  in  the  square  of  St.  Apollinare."  For  which  un- 
expected piece  of  clangorous  impiety  the  Florentines  were  ex- 
communicated, besides  drawing  upon  themselves  the  steady 
enmity  of  Pavia,  the  Abbot's  native  town;  "and  indeed 
people  say  the  Abbot  wras  innocent,  though  he  belonged  to  a 
great  Ghibelline  house.  And  for  this  sin,  and  for  many 
others  done  by  the  wicked  people,  many  wise  persons  say 
that  God,  for  Divine  judgment,  permitted  upon  the  said 
people  the  revenge  and  slaughter  of  Monteaperti." 

132.  The  sentence  which  I  have  last  read  introduces,  as  you 
must  at  once  have  felt,  a  new  condition  of  things.  Generally, 
I  have  spoken  of  the  Ghibeilines  as  infidel,  or  impious  ;  and 
for  the  most  part  they  represent,  indeed,  the  resistance  of 
kingly  to  priestly  power.  But,  in  this  action  of  Florence,  we 
have  the  rise  of  another  force  against  the  Church,  in  the  end 
to  be  much  more  fatal  to  it,  that  of  popular  intelligence  and 
popular  passion.  I  must  for  the  present,  however,  return  to 
our  immediate  business  ;  and  ask  you  to  take  note  of  the  effect, 
on  actually  existing  Florentine  architecture,  of  the  political 
movements  of  the  ten  years  we  have  been  studying. 

133.  In  the  revolution  of  Candlemas,  1248,  the  successful 
Ghibeilines  throw  down  thirty-six  of  the  Guelph  palaces. 

And  in  the  revolution  of  July,  1258,  the  successful  Guelphs 
throw  down  all  the  Ghibelline  palaces. 

Meantime  the  trades,  as  against  the  Knights  Castellans,  have 
thrown  down  the  tops  of  all  the  towTers  above  seventy-five  feet 
high. 

And  wre  shall  presently  have  a  proposal,  after  the  battle  of 
the  Arbia,  to  throw  down  Florence  altogether. 

134  You  think  at  first  that  this  is  remarkably  like  the  course 


PAX  V0B1SCUM. 


301 


cf  republican  reformations  in  the  present  day  ?  But  there  is 
a  wide  difference.  In  the  first  place,  the  palaces  and  towers 
are  not  thrown  down  in  mere  spite  or  desire  of  ruin,  but  after 
quite  definite  experience  of  their  danger  to  the  State,  and 
positive  dejection  of  boiling  lead  and  wooden  logs  from  their 
machicolations  upon  the  heads  below.  In  the  second  place, 
nothing  is  thrown  down  without  complete  certainty  on  the 
part  of  the  overthrowers  that  they  are  able,  and  willing,  to 
build  as  good  or  better  things  instead  ;  which,  if  any  like  con- 
viction exist  in  the  minds  of  modern  republicans,  is  a  wofully 
ill-founded  one  :  and  lastly  >  these  abolitions  of  private  wealth 
were  coincident  with  a  widely  spreading  disposition  to  under- 
take, as  I  have  above  noticed,  works  of  public  utility,  from 
winch  no  dividends  were  to  be  received  by  any  of  the  sharehold- 
ers ;  and  for  the  execution  of  which  the  builders  received  no 
commission  on  the  cost,  but  payment  at  the  rate  of  so  much  a 
day,  carefully  adjusted  to  the  exertion  of  real  power  and  in- 
telligence. 

135.  We  must  not,  therefore,  without  qualification  blame, 
though  we  may  profoundly  regret,  the  destructive  passions  of 
the  thirteenth  century.  The  architecture  of  the  palaces  thus 
destroyed  in  Florence  contained  examples  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful round-arched  work  that  had  been  developed  by  the  Norman 
schools  ;  and  was  in  some  cases  adorned  with  a  barbaric  splen- 
dour, and  fitted  into  a  majesty  of  strength  which,  so  far  as  I  can 
conjecture  the  effect  of  it  from  the  few  now  existing  traces, 
must  have  presented  some  of  the  most  impressive  aspects  of 
street  edifice  ever  existent  among  civil  societies. 

136.  It  may  be  a  temporary  relief  for  you  from  the  confu- 
sion of  following  the  giddy  successions  of  Florentine  temper, 
if  I  interrupt,  in  this  place,  my  history  of  the  city  by  some  in- 
quiry into  technical  points  relating  to  the  architecture  of 
these  destroyed  palaces.  Their  style  is  familiar  to  us,  indeed, 
in  a  building  of  which  it  is  difficult  to  believe  the  early  date, — 
the  leaning  tower  of  Pisa.  The  lower  stories  of  it  are  of  the 
twelfth  century,  and  the  open  arcades  of  the  cathedrals  of  Pisa 
and  Lucca,  as  well  as  the  lighter  construction  of  the  spire  of 
St.  Niccol,  at  Pisa,  (though  this  wTas  built  in  continuation  of 


302 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


the  older  style  by  Niccola  himself,)  all  represent  to  you,  though 
in  enriched  condition,  the  general  manner  of  building  in  pal- 
aces of  the  Norman  period  in  Val  d'Arno.  That  of  the  Tosin- 
ghi,  above  the  old  market  in  Florence,  is  especially  mentioned 
by  Villani,  as  more  than  a  hundred  feet  in  height,  entirely 
built  with  little  pillars,  (colonnelli,)  of  marble.  On  their 
splendid  masonry  was  founded  the  exquisiteness  of  that  which 
immediately  succeeded  them,  of  which  the  elate  is  fixed  by 
definite  examples  both  in  Verona  and  Florence,  and  which  still 
exists  in  noble  masses  in  the  retired  streets  and  courts  of 
either  city  ;  too  soon  superseded,  in  the  great  thoroughfares, 
by  the  effeminate  and  monotonous  luxury  of  Venetian  renais- 
sance, or  by  the  heaps  of  quarried  stone  wThich  x'ise  into  the 
ruggedness  of  their  native  cliffs,  in  the  Pitti  and  Strozzi  pal* 
aces. 


LECTUKE  VI. 

MARBLE  COUCHANT. 

137.  I  told  you  in  my  last  lecture  that  the  exquisiteness  of 
Florentine  thirteenth  century  masonry  was  founded  on  the 
strength  and  splendour  of  that  which  preceded  it. 

I  use  the  word  '  founded  9  in  a  literal  as  well  as  figurative 
sense.  While  the  merchants,  in  their  year  of  victories,  threw 
down  the  walls  of  the  war-towers,  they  as  eagerly  and  diligently 
set  their  best  craftsmen  to  lift  higher  the  walls  of  their 
churches.  For  the  most  part,  the  Early  Norman  or  Basilican 
forms  were  too  low  to  please  them  in  their  present  enthusi- 
asm. Their  pride,  as  well  as  their  piety,  desired  that  these 
stones  of  their  temples  might  be  goodly  ;  and  all  kinds  of 
junctions,  insertions,  refittings,  and  elevations  were  under- 
taken ;  which,  the  genius  of  the  people  being  always  for  mo- 
saic, are  so  perfectly  executed,  and  mix  up  twelfth  and  thir- 
teenth century  work  in  such  intricate  harlequinade,  that  it  is 
enough  to  drive  a  poor  antiquary  wild. 

138.  I  have  here  in  my  hand,  however,  a  photograph  of  a 


MARBLE  GOV CHANT. 


303 


small  church,  which  shows  you  the  change  at  a  glance,  and  at- 
tests it  in  a  notable  manner. 

You  know  Hubert  of  Lucca  was  the  first  captain  of  the 
Florentine  people,  and  the  march  in  which  they  struck  their 
florin  on  the  pine  trunk  was  through  Lucca,  on  Pisa. 

Now  here  is  a  little  church  in  Lucca,  of  which  the  lower 
half  of  the  facade  is  of  the  twelfth  century,  and  the  top,  built 
by  the  Florentines,  in  the  thirteenth,  and  sealed  for  their  owTn 
by  two  fleur-de-lys,  let  into  its  masonry.  The  most  important 
difference,  marking  the  date,  is  in  the  sculpture  of  the  heads 
Which  carry  the  archivolts.  But  the  most  palpable  difference 
is  in  the  Cyclopean  simplicity  of  irregular  bedding  in  the 
lower  story  ;  and  the  delicate  bands  of  alternate  serpentine 
and  marble,  which  follow  the  horizontal  or  couchant  placing 
of  the  stones  above. 

139.  Those  of  you  who,  interested  in  English  Gothic,  have 
visited  Tuscany,  are,  I  think,  always  offended  at  first,  if 
not  in  permanence,  by  these  horizontal  stripes  of  her  marble 
walls.  Twenty-two  years  ago  I  quoted,  in  vol.  i.  of  the 
(l  Stones  of  Venice,"  Professor  Willis's  statement  that  "  a 
practice  more  destructive  of  architectural  grandeur  could 
hardly  be  conceived  ; "  and  I  defended  my  favourite  buildings 
against  that  judgement,  first  by  actual  comparison  in  the  plate 
opposite  the  page,  of  a  piece  of  them  with  an  example  of  our 
modern  grandeur;  secondly,  (vol.  i.,  chap,  v.,)  by  a  compari- 
son of  their  aspect  with  that  of  the  building  of  the  grandest 
piece  of  wall  in  the  Alps, — that  Matterhorn  in  which  you 
all  have  now  learned  to  take  some  gymnastic  interest ;  and 
thirdly,  (vol.  i.,  chap,  xxvi.,)  by  reference  to  the  use  of  barred 
colours,  with  delight,  by  Giotto  and  all  subsequent  colourists. 

140.  But  it  did  not  then  occur  to  me  to  ask,  much  as  I 
always  disliked  the  English  Perpendicular,  what  would  have 
been  the  effect  on  the  spectator's  mind,  had  the  buildings 
been  striped  vertically  instead  of  horizontally  ;  nor  did  I  then 
know,  or  in  the  least  imagine,  how  much  practical  need  there 
was  for  reference  from  the  structure  of  the  edifice  to  that  of 
the  cliff ;  and  how  much  the  permanence,  as  well  as  propriety, 
of  structure  depended  on  the  stones  being  couchant  in  the 


804 


VAL  D'ARXO. 


wall,  as  they  had  been  in  the  quarry  :  to  which  subject  I  wish 
to-day  to  direct  your  attention. 

141.  You  will  find  stated  with  as  much  clearness  as  I  am 
able,  in  the  first  and  fifth  lectures  in  "  Aratra  Pentelici,"  the 
principles  of  architectural  design  to  which,  in  all  my  future 
teaching,  I  shall  have  constantly  to  appeal;  namely,  that  archi- 
tecture consists  distinctively  in  the  adaptation  of  form  to  resist 
force  ; — that,  practically,  it  may  be  always  thought  of  as  doing 
this  by  the  ingenious  adjustment  of  various  pieces  of  solid 
material  ;  that  the  perception  of  this  ingenious  adjustment, 
or  structure,  is  to  be  always  joined  with  our  admiration  of  the 
superadded  ornament ;  and  that  all  delightful  ornament  is  the 
honouring  of  such  useful  structures  ;  but  that  the  beauty  of  the 
ornament  itself  is  independent  of  the  structure,  and  arrived 
at  by  powers  of  mind  of  a  very  different  class  from  those 
which  are  necessary  to  give  skill  in  architecture  proper. 

142.  During  the  course  of  this  last  summer  I  have  been 
myself  very  directly  interested  in  some  of  the  quite  element- 
ary processes  of  true  architecture.  I  have  been  building  a 
little  pier  into  Coniston  Lake,  and  various  walls  and  terraces 
in  a  steeply  sloping  garden,  all  which  had  to  be  constructed 
of  such  rough  stones  as  lay  nearest.  Under  the  dextrous  hands 
of  a  neighbour  farmer's  son,  the  pier  projected,  and  the  walls 
rose,  as  if  enchanted  ;  every  stone  taking  its  proper  place,  and 
the  loose  dyke  holding  itself  as  firmly  upright  as  if  the  grip- 
ping cement  of  the  Florentine  towers  had  fastened  it.  My 
own  better  acquaintance  with  the  laws  of  gravity  and  of  statics 
did  not  enable  me,  myself,  to  build  six  inches  of  dyke  that 
would  stand  ;  and  all  the  decoration  possible  under  the  circum- 
stances consisted  in  turning  the  lichened  sides  of  the  stones 
outwards.  And  yet  the  noblest  conditions  of  building  in  the 
world  are  nothing  more  than  the  gradual  adornment,  by  play 
of  the  imagination,  of  materials  first  arranged  by  this  natural 
instinct  of  adjustment.  You  must  not  lose  sight  of  the 
instinct  of  building,  but  you  must  not  think  the  play  of  the 
imagination  depends  upon  it.  Intelligent  laying  of  stones  is 
always  delightful  ;  but  the  fancy  must  not  be  limited  to  its 
contemplation^ 


Plate  V. — Door  of  the  Baptistery.  Pisa. 


MARBLE  COU CHANT. 


305 


143.  In  the  more  elaborate  architecture  of  my  neighbour- 
hood, I  have  taken  pleasure  these  many  years  ;  one  of  the  first 
papers  I  ever  wrote  on  architecture  was  a  study  of  the  West- 
moreland cottage  ; — properly,  observe,  the  cottage  of  "West- 
mere-land,  of  the  land  of  western  lakes.  Its  principal  feature 
is  the  projecting  porch  at  its  door,  formed  by  two  rough  slabs 
of  Coniston  slate,  set  in  a  blunt  gable  ;  supported,  if  far  pro- 
jecting, by  two  larger  masses  for  uprights.  A  disciple  of  Mr. 
Pugin  would  delightedly  observe  that  the  porch  of  St.  Zeno 
at  Verona  was  nothing  more  than  the  decoration  of  this  con- 
struction ;  but  you  do  not  suppose  that  the  first  idea  of  put- 
ting  two  stones  together  to  keep  off  rain  was  all  on  which  the 
sculptor  of  St.  Zeno  wished  to  depend  for  your  entertainment. 

144.  Perhaps  you  may  most  clearly  understand  the  real 
connection  between  structure  and  decoration  by  considering 
all  architecture  as  a  kind  of  book,  which  must  be  properly 
bound  indeed,  and  in  which  the  illumination  of  the  pages  has 
distinct  reference  in  all  its  forms  to  the  breadth  of  the  margins 
and  length  of  the  sentences  ;  but  is  itself  free  to  follow  its  own 
quite  separate  and  higher  objects  of  design. 

145.  Thus,  for  instance,  in  the  architecture  which  Niccola 
was  occupied  upon,  when  a  boy,  under  his  Byzantine  master. 
Here  is  the  door  of  the  Baptistery  at  Pisa,  again  by  Mr.  Sev- 
ern delightfully  enlarged  for  us  from  a  photograph.*  The 
general  idea  of  it  is  a  square-headed  opening  in  a  solid  wall, 
faced  by  an  arch  carried  on  shafts.  And  the  ornament  does 
indeed  follow  this  construction  so  that  the  eye  catches  it  with 
ease, — but  under  what  arbitrary  conditions !  In  the  square 
door,  certainly  the  side-posts  of  it  are  as  important  members  as 
the  lintel  they  carry  ;  but  the  lintel  is  carved  elaborately,  and 
the  side-posts  left  blank.  Of  the  facing  arch  and  shaft,  it  would 
be  similarly  difficult  to  say  whether  the  sustaining  vertical,  or 
sustained  curve,  were  the  more  important  member  of  the  con- 
struction ;  but  the  decorator  now  reverses  the  distribution  of 
his  care,  adorns  the  vertical  member  with  passionate  elabora- 

*  Plate  5  is  from  the  photograph  itself  ;  the  enlarged  drawing  showed 
the  arrangement  of  parts  more  clearly,  hut  necessarily  omitted  detail 
which  it  is  better  here  to  retain. 


806 


VAL  I)  'A UNO. 


lion,  and  runs  a  narrow  band,  of  comparatively  uninteresting 
work,  round  the  arch.  Between  this  outer  shaft  and  inner 
door  is  a  square  pilaster,  of  which  the  architect  carves  one 
side,  and  lets  the  other  alone.  It  is  followed  by  a  smaller 
shaft  and  arch,  in  which  he  reverses  his  treatment  of  the  outer 
order  by  cutting  the  shaft  delicately  and  the  arch  deeply. 
Again,  whereas  in  what  is  called  the  decorated  construction 
of  English  Gothic,  the  pillars  would  have  been  left  plain  and 
the  spandrils  deep  cut, — here,  are  we  to  call  it  decoration  of 
the  construction,  when  the  pillars  are  carved  and  the  spandrils 
left  plain  ?  Or  when,  finally,  either  these  spandril  spaces  on 
each  side  of  the  arch,  or  the  corresponding  slopes  of  the  gable, 
are  loaded  with  recumbent  figures  by  the  sculptors  of  the  re- 
naissance, are  we  to  call,  for  instance,  Michael  Angelo's  Dawn 
and  Twilight,  only  the  decorations  of  the  sloping  plinths  of  a 
tomb,  or  trace  to  a  geometrical  propriety  the  subsequent  rule 
in  Italy  that  no  window  could  be  properly  complete  for  living 
people  to  look  out  of,  without  having  two  stone  people  sitting 
on  the  corners  of  it  above  ?  I  have  heard  of  charming  young 
ladies  occasionally,  at  very  crowded  balls,  sitting  on  the  stairs, 
— would  you  call  them,  in  that  case,  only  decorations  of  the 
construction  of  the  staircase  ? 

146.  You  will  find,  on  consideration,  the  ultimate  fact  to  be 
that  to  which  I  have  just  referred  you ; — my  statement  in 
"  Aratra,"  that  the  idea  of  a  construction  originally  useful  is 
retained  in  good  architecture,  through  all  the  amusement  of 
its  ornamentation  ;  as  the  idea  of  the  proper  function  of  any 
piece  of  dress  ought  to  be  retained  through  its  changes  in  form 
or  embroidery.  A  good  spire  or  porch  retains  the  first  idea 
of  a  roof  usefully  covering  a  space,  as  a  Norman  high  cap  or 
elongated  Quaker's  bonnet  retains  the  original  idea  of  a  sim- 
ple covering  for  the  head  ;  and  any  extravagance  of  subsequent 
fancy  may  be  permitted,  so  long  as  the  notion  of  use  is  not 
altogether  lost.  A  girl  begins  by  wrearing  a  plain  round  hat 
to  shade  her  from  the  sun  ;  she  ties  it  down  over  her  ears  on 
a  windy  day  ;  presently  she  decorates  the  edge  of  it,  so  bent, 
with  flowers  in  front,  or  the  riband  that  ties  it  with  a  bouquet 
at  the  side,  and  it  becomes  a  bonnet.    This  decorated  con- 


MARBLE  COUGH  ANT. 


307 


struction  may  be  discreetly  changed,  by  endless  fashion,  so 
long  as  it  does  not  become  a  clearly  useless  riband  round  the 
middle  of  the  head,  or  a  clearly  useless  saucer  on  the  top 
of  it. 

147.  Again,  a  Norman  peasant  may  throw  up  the  top  of  her 
cap  into  a  peak,  or  a  Bernese  one  put  gauze  wings  at  the  side 
of  it,  and  still  be  dressed  with  propriety,  so  long  as  her  hair 
is  modestly  confined,  and  her  ears  healthily  protected,  by  the 
matronly  safeguard  of  the  real  construction.  She  ceases  to 
be  decorously  dressed  only  when  the  material  becomes  too 
flimsy  to  answer  such  essential  purpose,  and  the  flaunting 
pendants  or  ribands  can  only  answer  the  ends  of  coquetry  or 
ostentation.  Similarly,  an  architect  may  deepen  or  enlarge, 
in  fantastic  exaggeration,  his  original  Westmoreland  gable 
into  Rouen-  porch,  and  his  original  square  roof  into  Coventry 
spire;  but  he  must  not  put  within  his  splendid  porch,  a 
little  door  where  two  persons  cannot  together  get  in,  nor  cut 
his  spire  away  into  hollow  filigree,  and  mere  ornamental  per- 
viousness  to  wind  and  rain. 

148.  Returning  to  our  door  at  Pisa,  we  shall  find  these 
general  questions  as  to  the  distribution  of  ornament  much 
confused  with  others  as  to  its  time  and  style.  We  are  at 
once,  for  instance,  brought  to  a  pause  as  to  the  degree  in 
which  the  ornamentation  was  once  carried  out  in  the  doors 
themselves.  Their  surfaces  were,  however,  I  doubt  not,  once 
recipients  of  the  most  elaborate  ornament,  as  in  the  Baptistery 
of  Florence  ;  and  in  later  bronze,  by  John  of  Bologna,  in  the 
door  of  the  Pisan  cathedral  opposite  this  one.  And  when  we 
examine  the  sculpture  and  placing  of  the  lintel,  which  at  first 
appeared  the  most  completely  Greek  piece  of  construction  of 
the  whole,  we  find  it  so  far  advanced  in  many  Gothic  char- 
acters,  that  I  once  thought  it  a  later  interpolation  cutting  the 
inner  pilasters  underneath  their  capitals,  while  the  three 
statues  set  on  it  are  certainly,  by  several  tens  of  years,  later 
still. 

149.  How  much  ten  years  did  at  this  time,  one  is  apt  to 
forget ;  and  how  irregularly  the  slower  minds  of  the  older 
men  would  surrender  themselves,  sadly,  or  awkwardly,  to  the 


308 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


vivacities  of  their  pupils.  The  only  wonder  is  that  it  should 
be  usually  so  easy  to  assign  conjectural  dates  within  twenty  or 
thirty  years  ;  but,  at  Pisa,  the  currents  of  tradition  and  in- 
vention run  with  such  cross  eddies,  that  I  often  find  myself 
utterly  at  fault.  In  this  lintel,  for  instance,  there  are  two 
pieces  separated  by  a  narrower  one,  on  which  there  has  been 
an  inscription,  of  which  in  my  enlarged  plate  you  may  trace, 
though,  I  fear,  not  decipher,  the  few  letters  that  remain.  The 
uppermost  of  these  stones  is  nearly  pure  in  its  Byzantine 
style  ;  the  lower,  already  semi-Gothic.  Both  are  exquisite  of 
their  kind,  and  we  will  examine  them  closely  ;  but  first  note 
these  points  about  the  stones  of  them.  "We  are  discussing 
work  at  latest  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Our  loss  of  the  in- 
scription is  evidently  owing  to  the  action  of  the  iron  rivets 
which  have  been  causelessly  used  at  the  two  horizontal  joints. 
There  was  nothing  whatever  in  the  construction  to  make  these 
essential,  and,  but  for  this  error,  the  entire  piece  of  work,  as 
delicate  as  an  ivory  tablet,  would  be  as  intelligible  to-day  as 
when  it  was  laid  in  its  place.* 

150.  Laid.  I  pause  upon  this  word,  for  it  is  an  important 
one.  And  I  must  devote  the  rest  of  this  lecture  to  considera- 
tion merely  of  what  follows  from  the  difference  between  lay- 
ing a  stone  and  setting  it  up,  whether  we  regard  sculpture  or 
construction.  The  subject  is  so  wide,  I  scarcely  know  how  to 
approach  it.  Perhaps  it  will  be  the  pleasantest  way  to  begin 
if  I  read  you  a  letter  from  one  of  yourselves  to  me.  A  very 
favourite  pupil,  who  travels  third  class  always,  for  sake  of 
better  company,  wrote  to  me  the  other  day  :  "  One  of  my  fel- 
low-travellers, who  was  a  builder,  or  else  a  master  mason, 
told  me  that  the  way  in  which  red  sandstone  buildings  last 
depends  entirely  on  the  way  in  which  the  stone  is  laid.  It 
must  lie  as  it  does  in  the  quarry  ;  but  he  said  that  very  few 
workmen  could  always  tell  the  difference  between  the  joints 
of  planes  of  cleavage  and  the — something  else  which  I  couldn't 
catch, — by  which  he  meant,  I  suppose  planes  of  stratification. 
He  said  too  that  some  people,  though  they  were  very  particu- 

*  Plates  6  and  7  give,  in  greater  clearness,  the  sculpture  of  this  lintel^ 
for  notes  on  which  see  Appendix. 


MARBLE  COU CHANT. 


309 


lar  about  having  the  stone  laid  well,  allowed  blocks  to  stand 
in  the  rain  the  wrong  way  up,  and  that  they  never  recovered 
one  wetting.  The  stone  of  the  same  quarry  varies  much,  and 
he  said  that  moss  will  grow  immediately  on  good  stone,  but 
not  on  bad.  How  curious, — nature  helping  the  best  work- 
man !  "    Thus  far  my  favourite  pupil. 

151.  'Moss  will  grow  on  the  best  stone.'  The  first  thing 
your  modern  restorer  would  do  is  to  scrape  it  off ;  and  with 
it,  whatever  knitted  surface,  half  moss  root,  protects  the  in- 
terior stone.  Have  you  ever  considered  the  infinite  functions 
of  protection  to  mountain  form  exercised  by  the  mosses  and 
lichens  ?  It  will  perhaps  be  refreshing  to  you  after  our  work 
among  the  Pisan  marbles  and  legends,  if  we  have  a  lecture  or 
two  on  moss.  Meantime  I  need  not  tell  you  that  it  would  not 
be  a  satisfactory  natural  arrangement  if  moss  grew  on  marble, 
and  that  all  fine  workmanship  in  marble  implies  equal  exqui- 
siteness  of  surface  and  edge. 

152.  You  will  observe  also  that  the  importance  of  laying 
the  stone  in  the  building  as  it  lay  in  its  bed  was  from  the 
first  recognised  by  all  good  northern  architects,  to  such  ex- 
tent that  to  lay  stones  c  en  delit, '  or  in  a  position  out  of  their 
bedding,  is  a  recognized  architectural  term  in  France,  where 
all  structural  building  takes  its  rise  ;  and  in  that  form  of 
1  delit '  the  word  gets  most  curiously  involved  with  the  Latin 
delictum  and  deliquium.  It  would  occupy  the  time  of  a 
whole  lecture  if  I  entered  into  the  confused  relations  of  the 
words  derived  from  lectus,  liquidus,  delinquo,  diliquo,  and 
deliquesco  ;  and  of  the  still  more  confused,  but  beautifully 
confused,  (and  enriched  by  confusion,)  forms  of  idea,  whether 
respecting  morality  or  marble,  arising  out  of  the  meanings  of 
these  words  :  the  notions  of  a  bed  gathered  or  strewn  for  the 
rest,  whether  of  rocks  or  men  ;  of  the  various  states  of  solidity 
and  liquidity  connected  with  strength,  or  with  repose  ;  and  of 
the  duty  of  staying  quiet  in  a  place,  or  under  a  law,  and  the 
mischief  of  leaving  it,  being  all  fastened  in  the  minds  of  early 
builders,  and  of  the  generations  of  men  for  whom  they  built, 
by  the  unescapable  bearing  of  geological  laws  on  their  life  ; 
by  the  ease  or  difficulty  of  splitting  rocks,  by  the  variable 


310 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


consistency  of  the  fragments  split,  by  the  innumerable  ques- 
tions occurring  practically  as  to  bedding  and  cleavage  in  every 
kind  of  stone,  from  tufo  to  granite,  and  by  the  unseemly,  or 
beautiful,  destructive,  or  protective,  effects  of  decomposition.* 
The  same  processes  of  time  which  cause  your  Oxford  oolite  to 
flake  away  like  the  leaves  of  a  mouldering  book,  only  warm 
with  a  glow  of  perpetually  deepening  gold  the  marbles  of 
Athens  and  Verona ;  and  the  same  laws  of  chemical  change 
which  reduce  the  granites  of  Dartmoor  to  porcelain  clay,  bind 
the  sands  of  Coventry  into  stones  which  can  be  built  up  half- 
way to  the  sky. 

153.  But  now,  as  to  the  matter  immediately  before  us,  ob- 
serve what  a  double  question  arises  about  laying  stones  as 
they  lie  in  the  quarry.  First,  how  do  they  lie  in  the  quarry  ? 
Secondly,  how  can  Ave  lay  them  so  in  every  part  of  our 
building  ? 

A.  How  do  they  lie  in  the  quarry?  Level,  perhaps,  at  Stones- 
field  and  Coventry  ;  but  at  an  angle  of  45°  at  Carrara  ;  and 
for  aught  I  know,  of  90°  in  Paros  or  Pentelicus.  Also,  the 
bedding  is  of  prime  importance  at  Coventry,  but  the  cleav- 
age at  Coniston.f 

B.  And  then,  even  if  we  know  what  the  quarry  bedding  is, 
how  are  we  to  keep  it  always  in  our  building?  You  may  lay 
the  stones  of  a  wall  carefully  level,  but  how  will  }Tou  lay  those 
of  an  arch?  You  think  these,  perhaps,  trivial,  or  merely  curi- 
ous questions.  So  far  from  it,  the  fact  that  while  the  bedding 
in  Normandy  is  level,  that  at  Carrara  is  steep,  and  that  the 

#  This  passage  cannot  but  seem  to  the  reader  loose  and  fantastic. 
I  have  elaborate  notes,  and  many  an  unwritten  thought,  on  these  mat- 
ters, but  no  time  or  strength  to  develop  them.  The  passage  is  not  fan- 
tastic, but  the  rapid  index  of  what  I  know  to  be  true  in  all  the  named 
particulars.  But  compare,  for  mere  rough  illustration  of  what  I  mean, 
the  moral  ideas  relating  to  the  stone  of  Jacob's  pillow,  or  the  tradition 
of  it,  with  those  to  which  French  Flamboyant  Gothic  owes  its  character. 

f  There  are  at  least  four  definite  cleavages  at  Coniston,  besides  joints. 
One  of  these  cleavages  furnishes  the  Coniston  slate  of  commerce ; 
another  forms  the  ranges  of  Wetherlam  and  Yewdale  crag;  a  third 
cuts  these  ranges  to  pieces,  striking  from  north-west  to  south-east  ;  and 
a  fourth  into  other  pieces,  from  north-east  to  south-west. 


MARBLE  GOV  CHANT. 


311 


forces  which  raised  the  beds  of  Carrara  crystallized  them  also, 
so  that  the  cleavage  which  is  all-important  in  the  stones  of  my 
garden  wall  is  of  none  in  the  duomo  of  Pisa, — simply  deter- 
mined the  possibility  of  the  existence  of  Pisan  sculpture  at 
.ill,  and  regulated  the  whole  life  and  genius  of  Nicholas  the 
Pisan  and  of  Christian  art.  And,  again,  the  fact  that  you  can 
put  stones  in  true  bedding  in  a  wall,  but  cannot  in  an  arch, 
determines  the  structural  transition  from  classical  to  Gothic 
architecture. 

154.  The  structural  transition,  observe  ;  only  a  part,  and 
that  not  altogether  a  coincident  part,  of  the  moral  transition. 
Eead  carefully,  if  you  have  time,  the  articles  'Pierre'  and 
'  Meneau '  in  M.  Violet  le  Due's  Dictionary  of  Architecture, 
and  you  will  know  everything  that  is  of  importance  in  the 
changes  dependent  on  the  mere  qualities  of  matter.  I  must, 
however,  try  to  set  in  your  view  also  the  relative  acting  quali- 
ties of  mind. 

You  will  find  that  M.  Violet  le  Due  traces  all  the  forms  of 
Gothic  tracery  to  the  geometrical  and  practically  (serviceable 
development  of  the  stone  'chassis/  chasing,  or  frame,  for 
the  glass.  For  instance,  he  attributes  the  use  of  the  cusp 
or  'redent'  in  its  more  complex  forms,  to  the  necessity,  or 
convenience,  of  diminishing  the  space  of  glass  which  the  tra- 
cery grasps  ;  and  he  attributes  the  reductions  of  the  mouldings 
in  the  tracery  bar  under  portions  of  one  section,  to  the  greater 
lacility  thus  obtained  by  the  architect  in  directing  his  work- 
men. The  plan  of  a  window  once  given,  and  the  moulding- 
section, — all  is  said,  thinks  M.  Violet  le  Due.  Very  conven- 
ient indeed,  for  modern  architects  who  have  commission  on 
the  cost.  But  certainly  not  necessary,  and  perhaps  even  in- 
convenient, to  Niccola  Pisano,  who  is  himself  his  workman, 
and  cuts  his  own  traceries,  with  his  apron  loaded  with  dust. 

155.  Again,  the  redent— the  6  tooth  within  tooth '  of  a 
French  tracery — may  be  necessary,  to  bite  its  glass.  But  the 
cusp,  cuspis,  spiny  or  spearlike  point  of  a  thirteenth  century 
illumination,  is  not  in  the  least  necessary  to  transfix  the  parch- 
ment. Yet  do  you  suppose  that  the  structural  convenience  of 
the  redent  entirely  effaces  from  the  mind  of  the  designer  the 


312 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


aesthetic  characters  which  he  seeks  iu  the  cusp  ?  If  you  could 
for  au  instant  imagine  this,  you  would  be  undeceived  by  a 
glance  either  at  the  early  redents  of  Amiens,  fringing  hollow 
vaults,  or  the  late  redents  of  Rouen,  acting  as  crockets  on  the 
outer  edges  of  pediments. 

156.  Again  :  if  you  think  of  the  tracery  in  its  bars,  you  call 
the  cusp  a  redent ;  but  if  you  think  of  it  in  the  openings,  you 
call  the  apertures  of  it  foils.  Do  you  suppose  that  the  thir- 
teenth century  builder  thought  only  of  the  strength  of  the 
bars  of  his  enclosure,  and  never  of  the  beauty  of  the  form  he 
enclosed  ?  You  will  find  in  my  chapter  on  the  Aperture,  in 
the  "  Stones  of  Venice/'  full  development  of  the  aesthetic  laws 
relating  to  both  these  forms,  while  you  may  see,  in  Professor 
Willis's  6  Architecture  of  the  Middle  Ages,'  a  beautiful  analysis 
of  the  development  of  tracery  from  the  juxtaposition  of  aper- 
ture ;  and  in  the  article  'Meneau,1  just  quoted  of  M.  Violet  le 
Due,  an  equally  beautiful  analysis  of  its  development  from  the 
masonry  of  the  chassis.  You  may  at  first  think  that  Profes- 
sor Willises  analysis  is  inconsistent  with  M.  Violet  le  Due's. 
But  they  are  no  more  inconsistent  than  the  accounts  of  the 
growth  of  a  human  being  would  be,  if  given  by  two  anato- 
mists, of  whom  one  had  examined  only  the  skeleton,  and  the 
other  only  the  respiratory  system ;  and  who,  therefore,  sup- 
posed— the  first,  that  the  animal  had  been  made  only  to  leap, 
and  the  other  only  to  sing.  I  don't  mean  that  either  of  the 
writers  I  name  are  absolutely  thus  narrow  in  their  own  views, 
but  that,  so  far  as  inconsistency  appears  to  exist  between 
them,  it  is  of  that  partial  kind  only. 

157.  And  for  the  understanding  of  our  Pisan  traceries  we 
must  introduce  a  third  element  of  similarly  distinctive  nature. 
We  must,  to  press  our  simile  a  little  farther,  examine  the 
growth  of  the  animal  as  if  it  had  been  made  neither  to  leap, 
nor  to  sing,  but  only  to  think.  We  must  observe  the  tran- 
sitional states  of  its  nerve  power  ;  that  is  to  say,  in  our  win- 
dow tracery  we  must  consider  not  merely  how  its  ribs  are 
built,  (or  how  it  stands,)  nor  merely  how  its  openings  are 
shaped,  or  how  it  breathes ;  but  also  what  its  openings  are 
made  to  light,  or  its  shafts  to  receive,  of  picture  or  image. 


MARBLE  CO U CHANT.  819 

As  the  limbs  of  the  building,  it  may  be  much  ;  as  the  lungs  of 
the  building,  more.    As  the  eyes  *  of  the  building,  what  ? 

158.  Thus  you  probably  have  a  distinct  idea — those  of  you 
at  least  who  are  interested  in  architecture — of  the  shape  of 
the  windows  in  Westminster  Abbey,  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Chartres,  or  in  the  Duomo  of  Milan.  Can  any  of  you,  I 
should  like  to  know,  make  a  guess  at  the  shape  of  the  win- 
dows in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  the  Stanze  of  the  Vatican,  the 
Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  or  the  lower  church  of  Assisi?  The 
soul  or  anima  of  the  first  three  buildings  is  in  their  windows  ; 
but  of  the  last  three,  in  their  walls. 

All  these  points  I  may  for  the  present  leave  you  to  think 
over  for  yourselves,  except  one,  to  which  I  must  ask  yet  for  a 
few  moments  your  further  attention. 

159.  The  trefoils  to  which  I  have  called  your  attention  in 
Niccola's  pulpit  are  as  absolutely  without  structural  office  in 
the  circles  as  in  the  panels  of  the  font  beside  it.  But  the 
circles  are  drawn  with  evident  delight  in  the  lovely  circular 
line,  while  the  trefoil  is  struck  out  by  Niccola  so  roughly  that 
there  is  not  a  true  compass  curve  or  section  in  any  part  of  it. 

Roughly,  I  say.  Do  you  suppose  I  ought  to  have  said  care- 
lessly ?  So  far  from  it,  that  if  one  sharper  line  or  more 
geometric  curve  had.  been  given,  it  would  have  caught  the 
eye  too  strongly,  and  drawn  away  the  attention  from  the 
sculpture.  But  imagine  the  feeling  with  which  a  French 
master  workman  would,  first  see  these  clumsy  intersections  of 
curves.  It  would  be  exactly  the  sensation  with  which  a  prac- 
tical botanical  draughtsman  would,  look  at  a  foliage  back- 
ground of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

But  Sir  Joshua's  sketched  leaves  would  indeed  imply  some 
unworkmanlike  haste.  We  must  not  yet  assume  the  Pisan 
master  to  have  allowed  himself  in  any  such.  His  mouldings 
may  be  hastily  cut,  for  they  are,  as  I  have  just  said,  unneces- 
sary to  his  structure,  and  disadvantageous  to  his  decoration  ; 

*  I  am  ashamed  to  italicize  so  many  words  ;  but  these  passages, 
written  for  oral  delivery,  can  only  be  understood  if  read  with  oral 
emphasis.  This  is  the  first  series  of  lectures  which  I  have  printed  as 
they  were  to  be  spoken  ;  and  it  is  a  great  mistake, 


314 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


but  he  is  not  likely  to  be  careless  about  arrangements  neces- 
sary for  strength.  His  mouldings  may  be  cut  hastily,  but  do 
you  think  his  joints  will  be  ? 

160.  What  subject  of  extended  inquiry  have  we  in  thia 
word,  ranging  from  the  cementless  clefts  between  the  couch- 
ant  stones  of  the  wTalls  of  the  kings  of  Rome,  whose  iron 
rivets  you  had  but  the  other  day  placed  in  your  hands  by  their 
discoverer,  through  the  grip  of  the  stones  of  the  Tower  of  the 
Death-watch,  to  the  subtle  joints  in  the  marble  armour  of  the 
Florentine  Baptistery  ! 

Our  own  wTork  must  certainly  be  left  with  a  rough  surface 
at  this  place,  and  we  will  fit  the  edges  of  it  to  our  next  piece 
of  study  as  closely  as  we  may. 


LECTURE  VII. 

MARBLE  RAMPANT. 

161.  I  closed  my  last  lecture  at  the  question  respecting 
Nicholas's  masonry.  His  mouldings  may  be  careless,  but  do 
you  think  his  joints  will  be  ? 

I  must  remind  you  now  of  the  expression  as  to  the  building 
of  the  communal  palace— " of  dressed  stones"* — as  opposed 
to  the  Tower  of  the  Death-watch,  in  which  the  grip  of  cement 
had  been  so  good.  Virtually,  you  will  find  that  the  schools 
of  structural  architecture  are  those  which  use  cement  to  bind 

*  "Pietre  conce."  The  portion  of  the  bas-reliefs  of  Orvieto,  given 
in  the  opposite  plate,  will  show  the  importance  of  the  jointing.  Observe 
the  way  in  which  the  piece  of  stone  with  the  three  principal  figures  i3 
dovetailed  above  the  extended  band,  and  again  in  the  rise  above  the 
joint  of  the  next  stone  on  the  right,  the  sculpture  of  the  wings  being 
carried  across  the  junction.  I  have  chosen  this  piece  on  purpose,  be- 
cause the  loss  of  the  broken  fragment,  probably  broken  by  violence, 
and  the  only  serious  injury  which  the  sculptures  have  received,  serves 
to  show  the  perfection  of  the  uninjured  surface,  as  compared  with 
northern  sculpture  of  the  same  date.  I  have  thought  it  well  to  show 
at  the  same  time  the  modern  German  engraving  of  the  subject,  respect 
ing  which  see  Appendix. 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


315 


their  materials  together,  and  in  which,  therefore,  balance  of 
weight  becomes  a  continual  and  inevitable  question.  But  the 
schools  of  sculptural  architecture  are  those  in  which  stones 
are  fitted  without  cement, — in  which,  therefore,  the  question 
of  fitting  or  adjustment  is  continual  and  inevitable,  but  the 
sustainable  weight  practically  unlimited. 

162.  You  may  consider  the  Tower  of  the  Death-watch  as 
having  been  knit  together  like  the  mass  of  a  Eoman  brick 
wall. 

But  the  dressed  stone  work  of  the  thirteenth  century  is  the 
hereditary  completion  of  such  block-laying,  as  the  Parthenon 
in  marble  ;  or,  in  tufo,  as  that  which  was  shown  you  so  lately 
in  the  walls  of  Romulus  ;  and  the  decoration  of  that  system 
of  couchant  stone  is  by  the  finished  grace  of  mosaic  or  sculpt- 
ure. 

163.  It  was  also  pointed  out  to  you  by  Mr.  Parker  that 
there  were  two  forms  of  Cyclopean  architecture  ;  one  of  level 
blocks,  the  other  of  polygonal, — contemporary,  but  in  locali- 
ties affording  different  material  of  stone. 

I  have  placed  in  this  frame  examples  of  the  Cyclopean  hori- 
zontal, and  the  Cyclopean  polygonal,  architecture  of  the  thir- 
teenth century.  And  as  Hubert  of  Lucca  was  the  master  of 
the  new  buildings  at  Florence,  I  have  chosen  the  Cyclopean 
horizontal  from  his  native  city  of  Lucca  ;  and  as  our  Nicholas 
and  John  brought  their  new  Gothic  style  into  practice  at 
Orvieto,  I  have  chosen  the  Cyclopean  polygonal  from  their 
adopted  city  of  Orvieto. 

Both  these  examples  of  architecture  are  early  thirteenth 
century  work,  the  beginnings  of  its  new  and  Christian  style, 
but  beginnings  with  which  Nicholas  and  John  had  nothing 
to  do  ;  they  were  part  of  the  national  work  going  on  round 
them. 

164.  And  this  example  from  Lucca  is  of  a  very  important 
class  indeed.  It  is  from  above  the  east  entrance  gate  of 
Lucca,  which  bears  the  cross  above  it,  as  the  doors  of  a 
Christian  city  should.  Such  a  city  is,  or  ought  to  be,  a  place 
of  peace,  as  much  as  any  monastery. 

This  custom  of  placing  the  cross  above  the  gate  is  Byzan* 


31G 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


line-Christian  ;  and  here  are  parallel  instances  of  its  treatment 
from  Assisi.  The  lamb  with  the  cross  is  given  in  the  more 
elaborate  arch  of  Verona. 

165.  But  farther.  The  mosaic  of  this  cross  is  so  exquisitely 
fitted  that  no  injury  has  been  received  by  it  to  this  day  from 
wind  or  weather.  And  the  horizontal  dressed  stones  are  laid 
so  daintily  that  not  an  edge  of  them  has  stirred  ;  and,  both 
to  draw  your  attention  to  their  beautiful  fitting,  and  as  a  sub- 
stitute for  cement,  the  architect  cuts  his  uppermost  block  so 
as  to  dovetail  into  the  course  below. 

Dovetail,  I  say  deliberately.  This  is  stone  carpentry,  in 
which  the  carpenter  despises  glue.  I  don't  say  he  won't  use 
glue,  and  glue  of  the  best,  but  he  feels  it  to  be  a  nasty  thing, 
and  that  it  spoils  his  wood  or  marble.  None,  at  least,  he 
determines  shall  be  seen  outside,  and  his  laying  of  stones 
shall  be  so  solid  and  so  adjusted  that,  take  all  the  cement 
away,  his  wall  shall  yet  stand. 

Stonehenge,  the  Parthenon,  the  walls  of  the  Kings,  this 
gate  of  Lucca,  this  window  of  Orvieto,  and  this  tomb  at 
Verona,  are  all  built  on  the  Cyclopean  principle.  They  will 
stand  without  cement,  and  no  cement  shall  be  seen  outside. 
Mr.  Burgess  and  I  actually  tried  the  experiment  on  this  tomb. 
Mr.  Burgess  modelled  every  stone  of  it  in  clay,  put  them  to- 
gether, and  it  stood. 

166.  Now  there  are  two  most  notable  characteristics  about 
this  Cyclopean  architecture  to  which  I  beg  your  close  atten- 
tion. 

The  first :  that  as  the  laying  of  stones  is  so  beautiful,  their 
joints  become  a  subject  of  admiration,  and  great  part  of  the 
architectural  ornamentation  is  in  the  beauty  of  lines  of  sepa- 
ration, drawn  as  finely  as  possible.  Thus  the  separating  lines 
of  the  bricks  at  Siena,  of  this  gate  at  Lucca,  of  the  vault  at 
Verona,  of  this  window  at  Orvieto,  and  of  the  contemporary 
refectory  at  Furness  Abbey,  are  a  main  source  of  the  pleasure 
you  have  in  the  building.  Nay,  they  are  not  merely  engrav- 
ers' lines,  but,  in  finest  practice,  they  are  mathematical  lines 
—length  without  breadth.  Here  in  my  hand  is  a  little  shaft 
of  Florentine  mosaic  executed  at  the  present  day     The  sepa- 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


317 


rations  between  the  stones  are,  in  dimension,  mathematical 
lines.  And  the  two  sides  of  the  thirteenth  century  porch  of 
St.  Anastasia  at  Verona  are  built  in  this  manner, — so  exqui- 
sitely, that  for  some  time,  my  mind  not  having  been  set  at  it, 
I  passed  them  by  as  painted ! 

167.  That  is  the  first  character  of  the  Florentine  Cyclopean 
But  secondly ;  as  the  joints  are  so  firm,  and  as  the  building 
must  never  stir  or  settle  after  it  is  built,  the  sculptor  may 
trust  his  work  to  two  stones  set  side  by  side,  or  one  above  an- 
other, and  carve  continuously  over  the  whole  surface,  disre- 
garding the  joints,  if  he  so  chooses. 

Of  the  degree  of  precision  with  which  Nicholas  of  Pisa  and 
his  son  adjusted  their  stones,  you  may  judge  by  this  rough 
sketch  of  a  piece  of  St.  Mary's  of  the  Thorn,  in  which  the  de- 
sign is  of  panels  enclosing  very  delicately  sculptured  heads ; 
and  one  would  naturally  suppose  that  the  enclosing  panels 
would  be  made  of  jointed  pieces,  and  the  heads  carved  sepa- 
rately and  inserted.  But  the  Pisans  would  have  considered 
that  unsafe  masonry, — liable  to  the  accident  of  the  heads  being 
dropped  out,  or  taken  away.  John  of  Pisa  did  indeed  use 
such  masonry,  of  necessity,  in  his  fountain  ;  and  the  bas-reliefs 
have  been  taken  away.  But  here  one  great  block  of  marble 
forms  part  of  two  panels,  and  the  mouldings  and  head  are  both 
carved  in  the  solid,  the  joint  running  just  behind  the  neck. 

168.  Such  masonry  is,  indeed,  supposing  there  were  no  fear 
of  thieves,  gratuitously  precise  in  a  case  of  this  kind,  in  which 
the  ornamentation  is  in  separate  masses,  and  might  be  sepa- 
rately carved.  But  when  the  ornamentation,  is  current,  and 
flows  or  climbs  along  the  stone  in  the  manner  of  waves  or 
plants,  the  concealment  of  the  joints  of  the  pieces  of  marble 
becomes  altogether  essential.  And  here  we  enter  upon  a 
most  curious  group  of  associated  characters  in  Gothic  as  op- 
posed to  Greek  architecture. 

169.  If  you  have  been  able  to  read  the  article  to  which  I 
referred  you,  'Meneau,'  in  M.  Violet  ie  Due's  dictionary,  you 
know  that  one  great  condition  of  the  perfect  Gothic  structure 
is  that  the  stones  shall  be  '  en  de-lit,'  set  up  on  end.  The  or- 
nament then,  which  on  the  reposing  or  couchant  stone  was 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


current  only,  on  the  erected  stone  begins  to  climb  also,  and 
becomes,  in  the  most  heraldic  sense  of  the  term,  rampant. 

In  the  heraldic  sense,  I  say,  as  distinguished  from  the  still 
wider  original  sense  of  advancing  with  a  stealthy,  creeping,  or 
clinging  motion,  as  a  serpent  on  the  ground,  and  a  cat,  or  a 
viae,  up  a  tree-stem.  And  there  is  one  of  these  reptile,  creep- 
ing, or  rampant  things,  which  is  the  first  whose  action  was 
translated  into  marble,  and  otherwise  is  of  boundless  impor- 
tance in  the  arts  and  labours  of  man. 

170.  You  recollect  Kingsley's  expression, — now  hackneyed, 
because  admired  for  its  precision, — the  '  crawling  foam/  of 
waves  advancing  on  sand.  Tennyson  has  somewhere  also  used, 
with  equal  truth,  the  epithet  ' climbing '  of  the  spray  of  break- 
ers against  vertical  rock.*  In  either  instance,  the  sea  action 
is  literally  '  rampant ' ;  and  the  course  of  a  great  breaker, 
whether  in  its  first  proud  likeness  to  a  rearing  horse,  or  in  the 
humble  and  subdued  gaining  of  the  outmost  verge  of  its  foam 
on  the  sand,  or  the  intermediate  spiral  whorl  which  gathers 
into  a  lustrous  precision,  like  that  of  a  polished  shell,  the 
grasping  force  of  a  giant,  you  have  the  most  vivid  sight  and 
embodiment  of  literally  rampant  energy  ;  which  the  Greeks 
expressed  in  their  symbolic  Poseidon,  Scylla,  and  sea-horse, 
by  the  head  and  crest  of  the  man,  dog,  or  horse,  with  the 
body  of  the  serpent ;  and  of  wThich  you  will  find  the  slower 
image,  in  vegetation,  rendered  both  by  the  spiral  tendrils  of 
grasping  or  climbing  plants,  and  the  perennial  gaining  of  the 
foam  or  the  lichen  upon  barren  shores  of  stone. 

171.  If  you  will  look  to  the  thirtieth  chapter  of  vol.  i.  in  the 
new  edition  of  the  "  Stones  of  Venice,"  which,  by  the  gift  of  its 
publishers,  I  am  enabled  to  lay  on  your  table  to  be  placed  in 
your  library,  you  will  find  one  of  my  first  and  most  eager 
statements  of  the  necessity  of  inequality  or  change  in  form, 
made  against  the  common  misunderstanding  of  Greek  sym- 
metry, and  illustrated  by  a  wToodcut  of  the  spiral  ornament  on 
the  treasury  of  Atreus  at  Mycenae.  All  that  is  said  in  that 
chapter  respecting  nature  and  the  ideal,  I  now  beg  most  ear- 

*  Perhaps  I  am  thinking  of  Lowell,  not  Tennyson  ;  I  have  not  time  to 
look. 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


319 


nestly  to  recommend  and  ratify  to  you  ;  but  although,  even 
at  that  time,  I  knew  more  of  Greek  art  than  my  antagonists, 
my  broken  reading  has  given  me  no  conception  of  the  range 
of  its  symbolic  power,  nor  of  the  function  of  that  more  or  less 
formal  spiral  line,  as  expressive,  not  only  of  the  waves  of  the 
sea,  but  of  the  zones  of  the  whirlpool,  the  return  of  the  tem- 
pest, and  the  involution  of  the  labyrinth.  And  although  my 
readers  say  that  I  wrote  then  better  than  I  write  now,  I  cannot 
refer  you  to  the  passage  without  asking  you  to  pardon  in  it 
what  I  now  hold  to  be  the  petulance  and  vulgarity  of  expres- 
sion, disgracing  the  importance  of  the  truth  it  contains.  A 
little  while  ago,  without  displeasure,  you  permitted  me  to  de- 
lay you  by  the  account  of  a  dispute  on  a  matter  of  taste  be- 
tween my  father  and  me,  in  which  he  was  quietly  and  unavail- 
ingly  right.  It  seems  to  me  scarcely  a  day,  since,  with  boyish 
conceit,  I  resisted  his  wise  entreaties  that  I  would  re-word  this 
clause  ;  and  especially  take  out  of  it  the  description  of  a  sea- 
wave  as  "  laying  a  great  white  tablecloth  of  foam  "  all  the  way 
to  the  shore.  Now,  after  an  interval  of  twenty  years,  I  refer 
you  to  the  passage,  repentant  and  humble  as  far  as  regards  its 
style,  which  people  sometimes  praised,  but  with  absolue  re- 
assertion  of  the  truth  and  value  of  its  contents,  which  people 
always  denied.  As  natural  form  is  varied,  so  must  beautiful 
ornament  be  varied.  You  are  not  an  artist  by  reproving  nat- 
ure into  deathful  sameness,  but  by  animating  your  copy  of 
her  into  vital  variation.  But  I  thought  at  that  time  that  only 
Goths  were  rightly  changeful.  I  never  thought  Greeks  were. 
Their  reserved  variation  escaped  me,  or  I  thought  it  accidental. 
Here,  however,  is  a  coin  of  the  finest  Greek  workmanship, 
wThich  shows  you  their  mind  in  this  matter  unmistakably. 
Here  are  the  waves  of  the  Adriatic  round  a  knight  of  Tar  en  turn, 
and  there  is  no  doubt  of  their  variableness. 

172.  This  pattern  of  sea-wave,  or  river  whirlpool,  entirely 
sacred  in  the  Greek  mind,  and  the  (36o-Tpvxos  or  similarly 
curling  wave  in  flowing  hair,  are  the  two  main  sources  of  the 
spiral  form  in  lambent  or  rampant  decoration.  Of  such  lam- 
bent ornament,  the  most  important  piece  is  the  crocket,  of 
which  I  rapidly  set  before  you  the  origin. 


320 


VAL  D'AUNO. 


173.  Here  is  a  drawing  of  the  gable  of  the  bishop's  throne 
in  the  upper  church  at  Assisi,  of  the  exact  period  when  the 
mosaic  workers  of  the  thirteenth  century  at  Rome  adopted 
rudely  the  masonry  of  the  north.  Briefly,  this  is  a  Greek 
temple  pediment,  in  which,  doubtful  of  their  power  to  carve 
figures  beautiful  enough,  they  cut  a  trefoiled  hold  for  orna- 
ment, and  bordered  the  edges  with  harlequinade  of  mosaic. 
They  then  call  to  their  help  the  Greek  sea-waves,  and  let  the 
surf  of  the  iEgean  climb  along  the  slopes,  and  toss  itself  at 
the  top  into  a  fleur-de-lys.  Every  wave  is  varied  in  outline 
and  proportionate  distance,  though  cut  with  a  precision  of 
curve  like  that  of  the  sea  itself.  Prom  this  root  we  are  able 
— but  it  must  be  in  a  lecture  on  crockets  only — to  trace  the 
succeeding  changes  through  the  curl  of  Richard  H.'s  hair, 
and  the  crisp  leaves  of  the  forests  of  Picardy,  to  the  knobbed 
extravagances  of  expiring  Gothic.  But  I  must  to-day  let  you 
compare  one  piece  of  perfect  Gothic  work  with  the  perfect 
Greek. 

174.  There  is  no  question  in  my  own  mind,  and,  I  believe, 
none  in  that  of  any  other  long-practised  student  of  mediaeval 
art,  that  in  pure  structural  Gothic  the  church  of  St.  Urbain 
at  Troyes  is  without  rival  in  Europe.  Here  is  a  rude  sketch 
of  its  use  of  the  crocket  in  the  spandrils  of  its  external 
tracery,  and  here  are  the  waves  of  the  Greek  sea  round  the 
son  of  Poseidon.  Seventeen  hundred  years  are  between  them, 
but  the  same  mind  is  in  both.  I  wonder  how  many  times 
seventeen  hundred  years  Mr.  Darwin  will  ask,  to  retrace  the 
Greek  designer  of  this  into  his  primitive  ape  ;  or  how  many 
times  six  hundred  years  of  such  improvements  as  we  have 
made  on  the  church  of  St.  Urbain,  will  be  needed  in  order  to 
enable  our  descendants  to  regard  the  designers  of  that,  as 
only  primitive  apes. 

175.  I  return  for  a  moment  to  my  gable  at  Assisi.  You 
see  that  the  crest  of  the  waves  at  the  top  form  a  rude  likeness 
of  a  fleur-de-lys.  There  is,  however,  in  this  form  no  real  inten- 
tion of  imitating  a  flower,  any  more  than  in  the  meeting  of 
the  tails  of  these  two  Etruscan  griffins.  The  notable  circum- 
stance in  this  piece  of  Gothic  is  its  advanced  form  of  crocket, 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


321 


and  its  prominent  foliation,  with  nothing  in  the  least  ap- 
proaching to  floral  ornament. 

176.  And  now,  observe  this  very  curious  fact  in  the  per- 
sonal character  of  two  contemporary  artists.  See  the  use  of 
my  manually  graspable  flag.  Here  is  John  of  Pisa, — here 
Giotto.  They  are  contemporary  for  twenty  years  ; — but  these 
are  the  prime  of  Giotto's  life,  and  the  last  of  John's  life  :  vir- 
tually, Giotto  is  the  later  workman  by  full  twenty  years. 

But  Giotto  always  uses  severe  geometrical  mouldings,  and 
disdains  all  luxuriance  of  leafage  to  set  off  interior  sculpture. 

John  of  Pisa  not  only  adopts  Gothic  tracery,  but  first  allows 
himself  enthusiastic  use  of  rampant  vegetation  ; — and  here  in 
the  facade  of  Orvieto,  you  have  not  only  perfect  Gothic  in 
the  sentiment  of  Scripture  history,  but  such  luxurious  ivy 
ornamentation  as  you  cannot  afterwards  match  for  two  hun- 
dred years.  Nay,  you  can  scarcely  match  it  then — for  grace 
of  line,  only  in  the  richest  flamboyant  of  France. 

177.  Now  this  fact  would  set  you,  if  you  looked  at  art  from 
its  aesthetic  side  only,  at  once  to  find  out  what  German  artists 
had  taught  Giovanni  Pisano.  There  ivere  Germans  teaching 
him, — some  teaching  him  many  things  ;  and  the  intense  con- 
ceit of  the  modern  German  artist  imagines  them  to  have 
taught  him  all  things. 

But  he  learnt  his  luxuriance,  and  Giotto  his  severity,  in  an- 
other school.  The  quality  in  both  is  Greek  ;  and  altogether 
moral.  The  grace  and  the  redundance  of  Giovanni  are  the 
first  strong  manifestation  of  those  characters  in  the  Italian 
mind  which  culminate  in  the  Madonnas  of  Luini  and  the  ara- 
besques of  Raphael.  The  severity  of  Giotto  belongs  to  him, 
on  the  contrary,  not  only  as  one  of  the  strongest  practical 
men  who  ever  lived  on  this  solid  earth,  but  as  the  purest  and 
firmest  reformer  of  the  discipline  of  the  Christian  Church,  of 
whose  writings  any  remains  exist. 

178.  Of  whose  writings,  I  say  ;  and  you  look  up,  as  doubt- 
ful that  he  has  left  any.  Hieroglyphics,  then,  let  me  say  in- 
stead ;  or,  more  accurately  still,  hierographics.  St.  Francis, 
in  what  he  wrote  and  said,  taught  much  that  was  false.  But 
Giotto,  his  true  disciple,  nothing  but  what  was  true.  And 


VAL  D'ABNO. 


where  he  uses  an  arabesque  of  foliage,  depend  upon  it  it  will 
be  to  purpose — not  redundant.  I  return  for  the  time  to  our 
soft  and  luxuriant  John  of  Pisa. 

179.  Soft,  but  with  no  unmanly  softness ;  luxuriant,  but 
with  no  unmannered  luxury.  To  him  you  owe  as  to  their 
first  sire  in  art,  the  grace  of  Ghiberti,  the  tenderness  of 
Raphael,  the  awe  of  Michael  Angelo.  Second-rate  qualities 
in  all  the  three,  but  precious  in  their  kind,  and  learned,  as 
you  shall  see,  essentially  from  this  man.  Second-rate  he  also, 
but  with  most  notable  gifts  of  this  inferior  kind.  He  is  the 
Canova  of  the  thirteenth  century  ;  but  the  Canova  of  the 
thirteenth,  remember,  was  necessarily  a  very  different  person 
from  the  Canova  of  the  eighteenth. 

The  Canova  of  the  eighteenth  century  mimicked  Greek 
grace  for  the  delight  of  modern  revolutionary  sensualists. 
The  Canova  of  the  thirteenth  century  brought  living  Gothic 
truth  into  the  living  faith  of  his  own  time. 

Greek  truth,  and  Gothic  'liberty,' — in  that  noble  sense  of 
the  word,  derived  from  the  Lafcin  £ liber,'  of  which  I  have  al- 
ready spoken,  and  which  in  my  next  lecture  I  will  endeavour 
completely  to  develope.  Meanwhile  let  me  show  you,  as  far 
as  I  can,  the  architecture  itself  about  which  these  subtle  ques- 
tions arise. 

180.  Here  are  five  frames,  containing  the  best  representa- 
tions I  can  get  for  you  of  the  facade  of  the  cathedral  of  Or- 
vieto.  I  must  remind  you,  before  I  let  you  look  at  them,  of 
the  reason  why  that  cathedral  was  built ;  for  I  have  at  last  got 
to  the  end  of  the  parenthesis  which  began  in  my  second  lect- 
ure, on  the  occasion  of  our  hearing  that  John  of  Pisa  was 
sent  for  to  Perugia,  to  carve  the  tomb  of  Pope  Urban  TV.  ; 
and  we  must  now  know  who  this  Pope  was, 

181.  He  was  a  Frenchman,  born  at  that  Troyes,  in  Cham, 
pagne,  which  I  gave  you  as  the  centre  of  French  architect- 
ural skill,  and  Royalist  character.  He  was  born  in  the  low- 
est class  of  the  people,  rose  like  Wolsey ;  became  Bishop  of 
Verdun  ;  then,  Patriarch  of  Jerusalem  ;  returned  in  the  year 
1261,  from  his  Patriarchate,  to  solicit  the  aid  of  the  then 
Pope,  Alexander  IV.,  against  the  Saracen.    I  do  not  know  on 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


what  day  he  arrived  in  Rome  ;  but  on  the  25th  of  May,  Alex- 
ander died,  and  the  Cardinals,  after  three  months'  disputing, 
elected  the  suppliant  Patriarch  to  be  Pope  himself. 

182.  A  man  with  all  the  fire  of  France  in  him,  all  the  faith, 
and  all  the  insolence  ;  incapable  of  doubting  a  single  article 
of  his  creed,  or  relaxing  one  tittle  of  his  authority  ;  destitute 
alike  of  reason  and  of  pity  ;  and  absolutely  merciless  either 
to  an  infidel,  or  an  enemy.  The  young  Prince  Manfred,  bas- 
tard son  of  Frederick  II.,  now  representing  the  main  power 
of  the  German  empire,  was  both  ;  and  against  him  the  Pope 
brought  into  Italy  a  religious  French  knight,  of  character  ab- 
solutely like  his  own,  Charles  of  Anjou. 

183.  The  young  Manfred,  now  about  twenty  years  old,  was 
as  good  a  soldier  as  he  was  a  bad  Christian  ;  and  there  was  no 
safety  for  Urban  at  Rome.  The  Pope  seated  himself  on  a 
worthy  throne  for  a  thirteenth-century  St.  Peter.  Fancy  the 
rock  of  Edinburgh  Castle,  as  steep  on  all  sides  as  it  is  to  the 
west ;  and  as  long  as  the  Old  Town  ;  and  you  have  the  rock 
of  Orvieto. 

184.  Here,  enthroned  against  the  gates  of  hell,  in  unassail- 
able fortitude,  and  unfaltering  faith,  sat  Urban  ;  the  righteous- 
ness of  his  cause  presently  to  be  avouched  by  miracle,  no- 
tablest  among  those  of  the  Roman  Church.  Twelve  miles 
east  of  his  rock,  beyond  the  range  of  low  Apennine,  shone  the 
quiet  lake,  the  Loch  Leven  of  Italy,  from  whose  island  the 
daughter  of  Theodoric  needed  not  to  escape — Fate  seeking 
her  there  ;  and  in  a  little  chapel  on  its  shore  a  Bohemian 
priest,  infected  with  Northern  infidelity,  was  brought  back  to 
his  allegiance  by  seeing  the  blood  drop  from  the  wafer  in  his 
hand.  And  the  Catholic  Church  recorded  this  heavenly  testi- 
mony to  her  chief  mystery,  in  the  Festa  of  the  Corpus  Domini, 
and  the  Fabric  of  Orvieto. 

185.  And  sending  was  made  for  John,  and  for  all  good  la- 
bourers in  marble  ;  but  Urban  never  saw  a  stone  of  the  great 
cathedral  laid.  His  citation  of  Manfred  to  appear  in  his  pres- 
ence to  answer  for  his  heresy,  was  fixed  against  the  posts  of 
the  doors  of  the  old  Duomo.  But  Urban  had  dug  the  foun- 
dation of  the  pile  to  purpose,  and  when  he  died  at  Perugia, 


321 


YAL  D'ARNO. 


still  breathed,  from  his  grave,  calamity  to  Manfred,  and  made 
from  it  glory  to  the  Church.  He  had  secured  the  election  of 
a  French  successor ;  from  the  rock  of  Orvieto  the  spirit  of 
Urban  led  the  French  chivalry,  when  Charles  of  Anjou  saw 
the  day  of  battle  come,  so  long  desired.  Manfred's  Saracens, 
with  their  arrowrs,  broke  his  first  line  ;  the  Pope's  legate 
blessed  the  second,  and  gave  them  absolution  of  all  their  sins, 
for  their  service  to  the  Church.  They  charged  for  Orvieto 
with  their  old  cry  of  s  Mont-Joie,  Chevaliers ! '  and  before 
night,  while  Urban  lay  sleeping  in  his  carved  tomb  at  Perugia, 
the  body  of  Manfred  lay  only  recognizable  by  those  who  loved 
him,  naked  among  the  slain. 

186.  Time  wore  on  and  on.  The  Suabian  power  ceased  ip 
Italy  ;  between  white  and  red  there  was  now  no  more  con- 
test ; — the  matron  of  the  Church,  scarlet-robed,  reigned, 
ruthless,  on  her  seven  hills.  Time  wore  on  ;  and,  a  hundred 
years  later,  now  no  more  the  power  of  the  kings,  but  the 
power  of  the  people, — rose  against  her.  St.  Michael,  from 
the  corn  market, — Or  San  Michele, — the  commercial  strength 
of  Florence,  on  a  question  of  free  trade  in  corn.  And  note, 
for  a  little  bye  piece  of  botany,  that  in  Val  d'Arno  lilies  grow 
among  the  corn  instead  of  poppies.  The  purple  gladiolus 
glows  through  all  its  green  fields  in  early  spring. 

187.  A  question  of  free  trade  in  corn,  then,  arose  between 
Florence  and  Home.  The  Pope's  legate  in  Bologna  stopped 
the  supply  of  polenta,  the  Florentines  depending  on  that  to 
eat  with  their  own  oil.  Very  wicked,  you  think,  of  the  Pope's 
legate,  acting  thus  against  quasi-Protestant  Florence  ?  Yes  ; 
just  as  wicked  as  the — not  quasi-Protestants — but  intensely 
positive  Protestants,  of  Zurich,  who  tried  to  convert  the 
Catholic  forest-cantons  by  refusing  them  salt.  Christendom 
has  been  greatly  troubled  about  bread  and  salt :  the  then 
Protestant  Pope,  Zuinglius,  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Keppel, 
and  the  Catholic  cantons  therefore  remain  Catholic  to  this 
day ;  while  the  consequences  of  this  piece  of  protectionist 
economy  at  Bologna  are  equally  interesting  and  direct. 

188.  The  legate  of  Bologna,  not  content  with  stopping  the 
supplies  of  maize  to  Florence,  sent  our  own  John  Hawkwood, 


MARBLE  RAMPANT. 


825 


on  the  24th  June,  1375,  to  burn  all  the  maize  the  Florentines 
had  got  growing  ;  and  the  abbot  of  Montemaggiore  sent  a 
troop  of  Perugian  religious  gentlemen-riders  to  ravage  simi- 
larly the  territory  of  Siena.  Whereupon,  at  Florence,  the 
Gonfalonier  of  Justice,  Aloesio  Alclobrandini,  rose  in  the 
Council  of  Ancients  and  proposed,  as  an  enterprise  worthy  of 
Florentine  generosity,  the  freedom  of  all  the  peoples  who 
groaned  under  the  tyranny  of  the  Church.  And  Florence, 
Siena,  Pisa,  Lucca,  and  Arezzo, — all  the  great  cities  of  Etruria, 
the  root  of  religion  in  Italy, — joined  against  the  tyranny  of 
religion.  Strangely,  this  Etrurian  league  is  not  now  to  restore 
Tarquin  to  Koine,  but  to  drive  the  Roman  Tarquin  into  exile. 
The  story  of  Lucretia  had  been  repeated  in  Perugia  ;  but  the 
Umbrian  Lucretia  had  died,  not  by  suicide,  but  by  falling  on 
the  pavement  from  the  window  through  which  she  tried  to 
escape.  And  the  Umbrian  Sextus  was  the  Abbot  of  Monte- 
maggiore's  nephew. 

189.  Florence  raised  her  fleur-de-lys  standard  :  and,  in  ten 
days,  eighty  cities  of  Romagna  were  free,  out  of  the  number 
of  wdiose  names  I  will  read  you  only  these — Urbino,  Foligno, 
Spoleto,  Narni,  Camerino,  Toscanella,  Perugia,  Orvieto. 

And  while  the  wind  and  the  rain  still  beat  the  body  of 
Manfred,  by  the  shores  of  the  Rio  Verde,  the  body  of  Pope 
Urban  was  torn  from  its  tomb,  and  not  one  stone  of  the 
carved  work  thereof  left  upon  another. 

190.  I  will  only  ask  you  to-day  to  notice  farther  that  the 
Captain  of  Florence,  in  this  w7ar,  was  a  '  Conrad  of  Suabia/ 
and  that  she  gave  him,  beside  her  own  flag,  one  with  only  the 
word  '  Libertas '  inscribed  on  it. 

I  told  you  that  the  first  stroke  of  the  bell  on  the  Tower  of 
the  Lion  began  the  carillon  for  European  civil  and  religious 
liberty.  But  perhaps,  even  in  the  fourteenth  century,  Flor- 
ence did  not  understand,  by  that  word,  altogether  the  same 
policy  which  is  now  preached  in  France,  Italy,  and  England. 

What  she  did  understand  by  it,  we  will  try  to  ascertain  in 
the  course  of  next  lecture. 


32G 


VAL  1)>AUN0. 


LECTURE  Vni 

FRANCHISE. 

191.  In  my  first  lecture  of  this  course,  you  remember  that 
I  showed  you  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark's  with  Niccola  Pisano's, 
calling  the  one  an  evangelical-preacher  lion,  and  the  other  a 
real,  and  naturally  affectionate,  lioness. 

And  the  one  I  showed  you  as  Ityzantine,  the  other  as  Gothic. 
So  that  I  thus  called  the  Greek  art  pious,  and  the  Gothic 
profane. 

"Whereas  in  nearly  all  our  ordinary  modes  of  thought,  and 
in  all  my  own  general  references  to  either  art,  we  assume 
Greek  or  classic  work  to  be  profane,  and  Gothic,  pious,  or 
religious. 

192.  Very  short  reflection,  if  steady  and  clear,  will  both  show 
you  how  confused  our  ideas  are  usually  on  this  subject,  and 
how  definite  they  may  within  certain  limits  become. 

First  of  all,  don't  confuse  piety  with  Christianity.  There 
are  pious  Greeks  and  impious  Greeks  ;  pious  Turks  and  im- 
pious Turks  ;  pious  Christians  and  impious  Christians  ;  pious 
modern  infidels  and  impious  modern  infidels.  In  case  you  do 
not  quite  know  what  piety  really  means,  wTe  will  try  to  know 
better  in  next  lecture  ;  for  the  present,  understand  that  I  mean 
distinctly  to  call  Greek  art,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, 
pious,  and  Gothic,  as  opposed  to  it,  profane. 

193.  But  when  I  oppose  these  two  words,  Gothic  and  Greek, 
don't  run  away  with  the  notion  that  I  necessarily  mean  to  op- 
pose Christian  and  Greek.  You  must  not  confuse  Gothic  blood 
in  a  man's  veins,  with  Christian  feeling  in  a  man's  breast. 
There  are  unconverted  and  converted  Goths  ;  unconverted  and 
converted  Greeks.  The  Greek  and  Gothic  temper  is  equally 
opposed,  where  the  name  of  Christ  has  never  been  uttered  by 
either,  or  when  every  other  name  is  equally  detested  by  both. 

I  want  you  to-day  to  examine  with  me  that  essential  differ- 


FRANCHISE. 


327 


ence  between  Greek  and  Gothic  temper,  irrespective  of  creed, 
to  which  I  have  referred  in  my  preface  to  the  last  edition  of 
the  "  Stones  of  Venice, "  sayiDg  that  the  Byzantines  gave  law 
to  Norman  license.  And  I  must  therefore  ask  your  patience 
while  I  clear  your  minds  from  some  too  prevalent  errors  as  to 
the  meaning  of  those  two  words,  law  and  license. 

194.  There  is  perhaps  no  more  curious  proof  of  the  disor- 
der which  impatient  and  impertinent  science  is  introducing 
into  classical  thought  and  language,  than  the  title  chosen  by 
the  Duke  of  Argyll  for  his  interesting  study  of  Natural  His- 
tory— £  The  Reign  of  Law.'  Law  cannot  reign.  If  a  natural 
law,  it  admits  no  disobedience,  and  has  nothing  to  put  right. 
If  a  human  one,  it  can  compel  no  obedience,  and  has  no  power 
to  prevent  wrong.  A  king  only  can  reign  ; — a  person,  that  is  to 
say,  who,  conscious  of  natural  law,  enforces  human  law  so  far 
as  it  is  just. 

195.  Kinghood  is  equally  necessary  in  Greek  dynasty,  and 
in  Gothic.  Theseus  is  every  inch  a  king,  as  well  as  Edward 
III.  Bat  the  laws  which  they  have  to  enforce  on  their  own 
and  their  companions'  humanity  are  opposed  to  each  other  as 
much  as  their  dispositions  are. 

The  function  of  a  Greek  king  was  to  enforce  labour. 

That  of  a  Gothic  king,  to  restrain  rage. 

The  lawrs  of  Greece  determine  the  wise  methods  of  labour  ; 
and  the  laws  of  France  determine  the  wise  restraints  of  passion. 

For  the  sins  of  Greece  are  in  Indolence,  and  its  pleasures  ; 
and  the  sins  of  France  are  in  fury,  and  its  pleasures. 

196.  You  are  now  again  surprised,  probably,  at  hearing  me 
oppose  France  typically  to  Greece.  More  strictly,  I  might  op- 
pose only  a  part  of  France, — Normandy.  But  it  is  better  to 
say,  France,*  as  embracing  the  seat  of  the  established  Norman 
power  in  the  Island  of  our  Lady  ;  and  the  province  in  which  it 
was  crowned, — Champagne. 

France  is  everlastingly,  by  birth,  name,  and  nature,  the 
country  of  the  Franks,  or  free  persons  ;  and  the  first  source  of 

u  Normandie,  la  franche,"  — "  France,  la  solue  ;  "  (chanson  de  Ro- 
land). One  of  my  good  pupils  referred  me  to  this  ancient  and  glorious 
French  song. 


328 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


European  frankness,  or  franchise.  The  Latin  for  franchise  ia 
libertas.  But  the  modern  or  Cockney-English  word  liberty, — 
Mr.  John  Stuart  Mills, — is  not  the  equivalent  of  libertas  ;  and 
the  modern  or  Cockney-French  word  liberte. — M.  Victor 
Hugo's, — is  not  the  equivalent  of  franchise. 

197.  The  Latin  for  franchise,  I  have  said,  is  libertas  ;  the 
Greek  is  ZXevOepca.  In  the  thoughts  of  all  three  nations, 
the  idea  is  precisely  the  same,  and  the  word  used  for  the  idea 
by  each  nation  therefore  accurately  translates  the  word  of  the 
other  :  iXevOepia — libertas — franchise — reciprocally  translate 
each  other.  Leonidas  is  characteristically  iXtvOepos  among 
Greeks  ;  Publicola,  characteristically  liber,  among  Romans  ; 
Edward  HI.  and  the  Black  Prince,  characteristically  frank 
among  French.  And  that  common  idea,  which  the  words  ex- 
press, as  all  the  careful  scholars  among  you  will  know,  is,  with 
all  the  three  nations,  mainly  of  deliverance  from  the  slavery  of 
passion.  To  be  i\ev6epos,  liber,  or  franc,  is  first  to  have 
learned  how  to  rule  our  own  passions  ;  and  then,  certain  that 
our  own  conduct  is  right,  to  persist  in  that  conduct  against 
all  resistance,  whether  of  counter-opinion,  counter-pain,  or 
counter-pleasure.  To  be  defiant  alike  of  the  mob's  thought, 
of  the  adversary's  threat,  and  the  harlot's  temptation, — this  is 
in  the  meaning  of  every  great  nation  to  be  free  ;  and  the  one 
condition  upon  which  that  freedom  can  be  obtained  is  pro- 
nounced to  you  in  a  single  verse  of  the  119th  Psalm,  "  I  will 
walk  at  liberty,  for  I  seek  Thy  precepts." 

198.  Thy  precepts  : — Law,  observe,  being  dominant  over  the 
Gothic  as  over  the  Greek  king,  but  a  quite  different  law. 
Edward  III.  feeling  no  anger  against  the  Sieur  de  Ribaumont, 
and  crowning  him  with  his  own  pearl  chaplet,  is  obeying  the 
law  of  love,  restraining  anger ;  but  Theseus,  slaying  the 
Minotaur,  is  obeying  the  law  of  justice,  and  enforcing 
anger. 

The  one  is  acting  under  the  law  of  the  charity,  x^Pts>  or 
grace  of  God  ;  the  other  under  the  law  of  His  judgment. 
The  two  together  fulfil  His  /<pta-is  and  ayair-q. 

199.  Therefore  the  Greek  dynasties  are  finally  expressed 
in  the  kinghoods  of  Minos,  Rhadamanthus,  and  Aeacus,  who 


FRANCHISE. 


329 


judge  infallibly,  and  divide  arithmetically.  But  the  dynasty 
of  the  Gothic  king  is  in  equity  and  compassion,  and  his  arith- 
metic is  in  largesse, 

"  Whose  moste  joy  was,  I  wis, 
When  that  she  gave,  and  said,  Have  this." 

So  that,  to  put  it  in  shortest  terms  of  all,  Greek  law  is  of 
Stasy,  and  Gothic  of  Ec-stasy  ;  there  is  no  limit  to  the  freedom 
of  the  Gothic  hand  or  heart,  and  the  children  are  most  in  the 
delight  and  the  glory  of  liberty  when  they  most  seek  their 
Father's  precepts. 

200.  The  two  lines  I  have  just  quoted  are,  as  you  probably 
remember,  from  Chaucer's  translation  of  the  French  Romance 
of  the  Rose,  out  of  which  I  before  quoted  to  you  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  virtue  of  Debonnairete.  Now  that  Debonnairete 
of  the  Painted  Chamber  of  Westminster  is  the  typical  figure 
used  by  the  French  sculptors  and  painters  for  'franchise/ 
frankness,  or  Frenchness  ;  but  in  the  Painted  Chamber, 
Debonnairete,  high  breeding,  'out  of  goodnestedness/  or 
gentleness,  is  used,  as  an  English  king's  English,  of  the  Norman 
franchise.  Here,  then,  is  our  own  royalty, — let  us  call  it 
Englishness,  the  grace  of  our  proper  kinghood  ; — and  here  is 
French  royalty,  the  grace  of  French  kinghood — Frenchness, 
rudely  but  sufficiently  drawn  by  M.  Didron  from  the  porch 
of  Chartres.  She  has  the  crown  of  fleur-de-lys,  and  William 
the  Norman's  shield. 

201.  Now  this  grace  of  high  birth,  the  grace  of  his  or  her 
Most  Gracious  Majesty,  has  her  name  at  Chartres  written 
beside  her,  in  Latin.  Had  it  been  in  Greek,  it  would  have 
been  tXevOepta.  Being  in  Latin,  what  do  you  think  it  must  be 
necessarily  ? — Of  course,  Libertas.  Now  M.  Didron  is  quite 
the  best  writer  on  art  that  I  know, — full  of  sense  and  intel- 
ligence ;  but  of  course,  as  a  modern  Frenchman, — one  of  a 
nation  for  whom  the  Latin  and  Gothic  ideas  of  libertas  have 
entirely  vanished, — he  is  not  on  his  guard  against  the  trap 
here  laid  for  him.  He  looks  at  the  word  libertas  through  his 
spectacles  ; — can't  understand,  being  a  thoroughly  good  anti- 


330 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


quary,*  how  such  a  virtue,  or  privilege,  could  honestly  be 
carved  with  approval  in  the  twelfth  century  ; — rubs  his  spec- 
tacles ;  rubs  the  inscription,  to  make  sure  of  its  every  letter  ; 
stamps  it,  to  make  surer  still ; — and  at  last,  though  in  a 
greatly  bewildered  state  of  mind,  remains  convinced  that  here 
is  a  sculpture  of  '  La  Liberte  •  in  the  twelfth  century.  "C'esfc 
bien  la  liberte  !  "    "On  lit  parfaitement  libertas." 

202.  Not  so,  my  good  M.  Didron! — a  very  different  per- 
sonage, this  ;  of  whom  more,  presently,  though  the  letters  of 
her  name  are  indeed  so  plainly,  £  Libertas,  at  non  liberalitas/ 
liberalitas  being  the  Latin  for  largesse,  not  for  franchise. 

This,  then,  is  the  opposition  between  the  Greek  and  Gothic 
dynasties,  in  their  passionate  or  vital  nature  ;  in  the  animal 
and  inbred  part  of  them  ; — Classic  and  romantic,  Static  and  ex- 
static.  But  now,  what  opposition  is  there  between  their 
divine  natures  ?  Between  Theseus  and  Edward  III.,  as  war- 
riors, we  now  know  the  difference  ;  but  between  Theseus  and 
Edward  HI ,  as  theologians  ;  as  dreaming  and  discerning 
creatures,  as  didactic  kings, — engraving  letters  with  the  point 
of  the  sword,  instead  of  thrusting  men  through  with  it, — 
changing  the  club  into  the  ferula,  and  becoming  schoolmasters 
as  well  as  kings  ;  what  is,  thus,  the  difference  between  them  ? 

Theologians  I  called  them.  Philologians  would  be  a  better 
word,— lovers  of  the  Aoyos,  or  Word,  by  which  the  heavens 
and  earth  were  made.  What  logos,  about  this  Logos,  have 
they  learned,  or  can  they  teach  ? 

203.  I  showed  you,  in  my  first  lecture,  the  Byzantine  Greek 
lion,  as  descended  by  true  unblemished  line  from  the  Nemean 
Greek  ;  but  with  this  difference  :  Heracles  kills  the  beast, 
and  makes  a  helmet  and  cloak  of  his  skin  ;  the  Greek  St. 
Mark  converts  the  beast,  and  makes  an  evangelist  of  him. 

Is  not  that  a  greater  difference,  think  you,  than  one  of  mere 
decadence  ? 

This  '  maniera  goffa  e  sproporzionata ?  of  Vasari  is  not,  then, 
merely  the  wasting  away  of  former  leonine  strength  into  thin 

*  Historical  antiquary;  not  art-antiquary  I  must  liniitedly  say,  how- 
ever. He  has  made  a  grotesque  mess  of  his  account  of  the  Ducal  Palace 
of  Venice,  through  his  ignorance  of  the  technical  characters  of  sculpture, 


FRANCHISE. 


331 


rigidities  of  death  ?  There  is  another  change  going  on  at  the 
same  time, — body  perhaps  subjecting  itself  to  spirit. 

I  will  not  teaze  you  with  farther  questions.  The  facts  are 
simple  enough.  Theseus  and  Heracles  have  their  religion, 
sincere  and  sufficient, — a  religion  of  lion-killers,  minotaur- 
killers,  very  curious  and  rude  ;  Eleusinian  mystery  mingled 
in  it,  inscrutable  to  us  now, — partly  always  so,  even  to  them. 

204.  Well ;  the  Greek  nation,  in  process  of  time,  loses  its 
manliness, — becomes  Graeculus  instead  of  Greek.  But 
though  effeminate  and  feeble,  it  inherits  all  the  subtlety  of  its 
art,  all  the  cunning  of  its  mystery  ;  and  it  is  converted  to  a 
more  spiritual  religion.  Nor  is  it  altogether  degraded,  even 
by  the  diminution  of  its  animal  energy.  Certain  spiritual 
phenomena  are  possible  to  the  weak,  which  are  hidden  from 
the  strong  ; — nay,  the  monk  may,  in  his  order  of  being,  pos- 
sess strength  denied  to  the  warrior.  Is  it  altogether,  think 
you,  by  blundering,  or  by  disproportion  in  intellect  or  in 
body,  that  Theseus  becomes  St.  Athanase  ?  For  that  is  the 
kind  of  change  which  takes  place,  from  the  days  of  the  great 
King  of  Athens,  to  those  of  the  great  Bishop  of  Alexandria, 
in  the  thought  and  theology,  or,  summarily,  in  the  spirit  of 
the  Greek. 

Now  we  have  learned  indeed  the  difference  between  the 
Gothic  knight  and  the  Greek  knight ;  but  what  will  be  the 
difference  between  the  Gothic  saint  and  Greek  saint  ? 

Franchise  of  body  against  constancy  of  body. 

Franchise  of  thought,  then,  against  constancy  of  thought. 

Edward  III.  against  Theseus. 

And  the  Frank  of  Assisi  against  St.  Athanase. 

205,  Utter  franchise,  utter  gentleness  in  theological  thought, 
Instead  of, '  This  is  the  faith,  which  except  a  man  believe  faith- 
fully, he  cannot  be  saved/  '  This  is  the  love,  which  if  a  bird 
or  an  insect  keep  faithfully,  it  shall  be  saved.' 

Gentlemen,  you  have  at  present  arrived  at  a  phase  of  nat- 
ural science  in  which,  rejecting  alike  the  theology  of  the  Byzan- 
tine, and  the  affection  of  the  .  Frank,  you  can  only  contemplate 
a  bird  as  flying  under  the  reign  of  law,  and  a  cricket  as  sing- 
ing under  the  compulsion  of  caloric. 


332 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


I  do  not  know  whether  you  yet  feel  that  the  position  of 
your  boat  on  the  river  also  depends  entirely  on  the  reign  of 
law,  or  whether,  as  your  churches  and  concert-rooms  are 
privileged  in  the  possession  of  organs  blown  by  steam,  you 
are  learning  yourselves  to  sing  by  gas,  and  expect  the  Dies 
Irae  to  be  announced  by  a  steam-trumpet.  But  I  can  very 
positively  assure  you  that,  in  my  poor  domain  of  imitative  art, 
not  all  the  mechanical  or  gaseous  forces  of  the  world,  nor  all 
the  laws  of  the  universe,  will  enable  you  either  to  see  a  colour, 
or  draw  a  line,  without  that  singular  force  anciently  called  the 
soul,  which  it  was  the  function  of  the  Greek  to  discipline  in 
the  duty  of  the  servants  of  God,  and  of  the  Goth  to  lead  into 
the  liberty  of  His  children. 

20G.  But  in  one  respect  I  wish  you  were  more  conscious  of 
the  existence  of  law  than  you  appear  to  be.  The  difference 
which  I  have  pointed  out  to  you  as  existing  between  these 
great  nations,  exists  also  between  two  orders  of  intelligence 
among  men,  of  which  the  one  is  usually  called  Classic,  the 
other  Romantic.  Without  entering  into  any  of  the  fine  dis- 
tinctions between  these  two  sects,  this  broad  one  is  to  be  ob- 
served as  constant :  that  the  writers  and  painters  of  the  Clas- 
sic school  set  down  nothing  but  what  is  known  to  be  true, 
and  set  it  down  in  the  perfectest  manner  possible  in  their 
way,  and  are  thenceforward  authorities  from  whom  there  is 
no  appeal.  Romantic  writers  and  painters,  on  the  contrary, 
express  themselves  under  the  impulse  of  passions  which  may 
indeed  lead  them  to  the  discovery  of  new  truths,  or  to  the 
more  delightful  arrangement  or  presentment  of  things  already 
known :  but  their  work,  however  brilliant  or  lovely,  remains 
imperfect,  and  without  authority.  It  is  not  possible,  of  course, 
to  separate  these  two  orders  of  men  trenchantly  :  a  classic 
writer  may  sometimes,  whatever  his  care,  admit  an  error,  and 
a  romantic  one  may  reach  perfection  through  enthusiasm. 
But,  practically,  you  may  separate  the  two  for  your  study  and 
your  education  ;  and,  during  your  youth,  the  business  of  us 
your  masters  is  to  enforce  on  you  the  reading,  for  school 
work,  only  of  classical  books  :  and  to  see  that  your  minds  are 
both  informed  of  the  indisputable  facts  they  contain,  and  ac- 


FRANCHISE. 


333 


customed  to  act  with  the  infallible  accuracy  of  which  they  set 
the  example. 

207.  I  have  not  time  to  make  the  calculation,  but  I  suppose 
that  the  daily  literature  by  which  we  now  are  principally 
nourished,  is  so  large  in  issue  that  though  St.  John's  "  even 
the  world  itself  could  not  contain  the  books  which  should  be 
written  "  may  be  still  hyperbole,  it  is  nevertheless  literally 
true  that  the  world  might  be  wrapped  in  the  books  which  are 
written  ;  and  that  the  sheets  of  paper  covered  with  type  on 
any  given  subject,  interesting  to  the  modern  mind,  (say  the 
prospects  of  the  Claimant,)  issued  in  the  form  of  English 
morning  papers  during  a  single  year,  would  be  enough  liter- 
ally to  pack  the  world  in. 

208.  Now  I  will  read  you  fifty-two  lines  of  a  classical  author, 
which,  once  well  read  and  understood,  contain  more  truth 
than  has  been  told  you  all  this  year  by  this  whole  globe's 
compass  of  print. 

Fifty-two  lines,  of  which  you  will  recognize  some  as  hack- 
neyed, and  see  little  to  admire  in  others.  But  it  is  not  pos- 
sible to  put  the  statements  they  contain  into  better  English, 
nor  to  invalidate  one  syllable  of  the  statements  they  contain.* 

209.  Even  those,  and  there  may  be  many  here,  who  would 
dispute  the  truth  of  the  passage,  will  admit  its  exquisite  dis- 
tinctness and  construction.  If  it  be  untrue,  that  is  merely 
because  I  have  not  been  taught  by  my  modern  education  to 
recognize  a  classical  author  ;  but  whatever  my  mistakes,  or 
yours,  may  be,  there  are  certain  truths  long  known  to  all 
rational  men,  and  indisputable.  You  may  add  to  them,  but 
you  cannot  diminish  them.  And  it  is  the  business  of  a  Uni- 
versity to  determine  what  books  of  this  kind  exist,  and  to  en- 
force the  understanding  of  them. 

210.  The  classical  and  romantic  arts  which  we  have  now 
under  examination  therefore  consist, — the  first,  in  that  which 
represented,  under  whatever  symbols,  truths  respecting  the 
history  of  men,  which  it  is  proper  that  all  should  know  ; 
while  the  second  owes  its  interest  to  passionate  impulse  or 


*  ■  The  Deserted  Village,'  line  251  to  302, 


334 


VAL  I)  ARNO. 


incident,  This  distinction  holds  in  all  ages,  but  the  distinc* 
tion  between  the  franchise  of  Northern,  and  the  constancy  of 
Byzantine,  art,  depends  partly  on  the  unsystematic  play  of 
emotion  in  the  one,  and  the  appointed  sequence  of  known 
fact  or  determined  judgment  in  the  other. 

You  will  find  in  the  beginning  of  M.  Didron's  book,  already 
quoted,  an  admirable  analysis  of  what  may  be  called  the 
classic  sequence  of  Christian  theology,  as  written  in  the 
sculpture  of  the  Cathedral  of  Chartres.  You  will  find  in  the 
treatment  of  the  facade  of  Orvieto  the  beginning  of  the  de- 
velopment of  passionate  romance,— the  one  being  grave  ser- 
mon writing  ;  the  other,  cheerful  romance  or  novel  writing  : 
so  that  the  one  requires  you  to  think,  the  other  only  to  feel 
or  perceive  ;  the  one  is  always  a  parable  with  a  meaning,  the 
other  only  a  story  with  an  impression. 

211.  And  here  I  get  at  a  result  concerning  Greek  art, 
which  is  very  sweeping  and  wide  indeed.  That  it  is  all  par- 
able, but  Gothic,  as  distinct  from  it,  literal.  So  absolutely 
does  this  hold,  that  it  reaches  down  to  our  modern  school  of 
landscape.  You  know  I  have  always  told  you  Turner  be- 
longed to  the  Greek  school.  Precisely  as  the  stream  of  blood 
coming  from  under  the  throne  of  judgment  in  the  Byzantine 
mosaic  of  Torcello  is  a  sign  of  condemnation,  his  scarlet  clouds 
are  used  by  Turner  as  a  sign  of  death  ;  and  just  as  on  an 
Egyptian  tomb  the  genius  of  death  lays  the  sun  down  behind 
the  horizon,  so  in  his  Cephalus  and  Procris,  the  last  rays  of 
the  sun  withdraw  from  the  forest  as  the  nymph  expires. 

And  yet,  observe,  both  the  classic  and  romantic  teaching 
may  be  equally  earnest,  only  different  in  manner.  But  from 
classic  art,  unless  you  understand  it,  you  may  get  nothing  ; 
from  romantic  art,  even  if  you  don't  understand  it,  you  get 
at  least  delight. 

212.  I  cannot  show  the  difference  more  completely  or  fort- 
unately than  by  comparing  Sir  Walter  Scott's  type  of  libertas, 
with  the  franchise  of  Chartres  Cathedral,  or  Debonnairete  of 
the  Painted  Chamber. 

At  Chartres,  and  Westminster,  the  high  birth  is  shown  by 
the  crown ;  the  strong  bright  life  by  the  flowing  hair ;  the 


FRANCHISE. 


335 


fortitude  by  the  conqueror's  shield ;  and  the  truth  by  the 
bright  openness  of  the  face  : 

lt  She  was  not  brown,  nor  dull  of  hue, 
But  white  as  snowc,  fallen  newe." 

All  these  are  symbols,  which,  if  you  cannot  read,  the  image 
is  to  you  only  an  uninteresting  stiff  figure.  But  Sir  Walter's 
Franchise,  Diana  Vernon,  interests  you  at  once  in  personal 
aspect  and  character.  She  is  no  symbol  to  you  ;  but  if  you 
acquaint  yourself  with  her  perfectly,  you  find  her  utter  frank- 
ness, governed  by  a  superb  self-command  ;  her  spotless  truth, 
refined  by  tenderness  ;  her  fiery  enthusiasm,  subdued  by  dig- 
nity ;  and  her  fearless  liberty,  incapable  of  doing  wrong,  join- 
ing to  fulfil  to  you,  in  sight  and  presence,  what  the  Greek 
could  only  teach  by  signs. 

213.  I  have  before  noticed — though  I  am  not  sure  that  you 
have  yet  believed  my  statement  of  it— the  significance  of  Sir 
Walter's  as  of  Shakspeare's  names ;  Diana  6  Vernon,  semper 
viret,'  gives  you  the  conditions  of  purity  and  youthful  strength 
or  spring  which  imply  the  highest  state  of  libertas.  By  cor- 
ruption of  the  idea  of  purity,  you  get  the  modern  heroines  of 
London  Journal— or  perhaps  we  may  more  fitly  call  it  '  Cock- 
ney-daily ' — literature.  You  have  one  of  them  in  perfection, 
for  instance,  in  Mr.  Charles  Beade's  '  Griffith  Gaunt' — " Lithe, 
and  vigorous,  and  one  with  her  great  white  gelding  ;  "  and 
liable  to  be  entirely  changed  in  her  mind  about  the  destinies 
of  her  life  by  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  conversation  with  a  gen- 
tleman unexpectedly  handsome  ;  the  hero  also  being  a  person 
who  looks  at  people  whom  he  dislikes,  with  eyes  "  like  a  dog's 
in  the  dark  ; "  and  both  hero  and  heroine  having  souls  and 
intellects  also  precisely  corresponding  to  those  of  a  dog's  in 
the  dark,  which  is  indeed  the  essential  picture  of  the  practical 
English  national  mind  at  this  moment, — happy  if  it  remains 
doggish, — Circe  not  usually  being  content  with  changing 
people  into  dogs  only.  For  the  Diana  Vernon  of  the  Greek 
is  Artemis  Laphria,  who  is  friendly  to  the  clog ;  not  to  the 
swine.  Do  you  see,  by  the  way,  how  perfectly  the  image  is 
carried  out  by  Sir  Walter  in  putting  his  Diana  on  the  border 


336 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


country  ?  "  Yonder  blue  hill  is  in  Scotland/'  she  says  to  her 
cousin, — not  in  the  least  thinking  less  of  him  for  having  been 
concerned,  it  may  be,  in  one  of  Eob  Roy's  forays.  And  so 
gradually  you  get  the  idea  of  Norman  franchise  carried  out  in 
the  free-rider  or  free-booter  ;  not  safe  from  degradation  on 
that  side  also  ;  but  by  no  means  of  swinish  temper,  or  forag- 
ing, as  at  present  the  British  speculative  public,  only  with 
the  snout. 

214.  Finally,  in  the  most  soft  and  domestic  form  of  virtue, 
you  have  Wordsworth's  ideal : 

"  Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty." 

The  distinction  between  these  northern  types  of  feminine 
virtue/and  the  figures  of  Alcestis,  Antigone,  or  Iphigenia,  lies 
deep  in  the  spirit  of  the  art  of  either  country,  and  is  carried 
out  into  its  most  unimportant  details.  "We  shall  find  in  the 
central  art  of  Florence  at  once  the  thoughtfulness  of  Greece 
and  the  gladness  of  England,  associated  under  images  of 
monastic  severity  peculiar  to  herself. 

And  what  Diana  Vernon  is  to  a  French  ballerine  dancing 
the  Cancan,  the  '  libertas '  of  Chartres  and  Westminster  is  to 
the  <  liberty'  of  M.  Victor  Hugo  and  Mr.  John  Stuart  Mill. 


LECTURE  IX. 

THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 

215.  We  may  now  return  to  the  points  of  necessary  history, 
having  our  ideas  fixed  within  accurate  limits  as  to  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word  Liberty  ;  and  as  to  the  relation  of  the  pas- 
sions which  separated  the  Guelph  and  Ghibelline  to  those  of 
our  own  days. 

The  Lombard  or  Guelph  league  consisted,  after  the  acces- 
sion of  Florence,  essentially  of  the  three  great  cities — Milan, 
Bologna,  and  Florence  ;  the  Imperial  or  Ghibelline  league,  of 
Verona,  Pisa,  and  Siena.  Venice  and  Genoa,  both  nominally 
Guelph,  are  in  furious  contention  always  for  sea  empire 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA, 


337 


while  Pisa  and  Genoa  are  in  contention,  not  so  much  for 
empire,  as  honour.  Whether  the  trade  of  the  East  was  to  go 
up  the  Adriatic,  or  round  by  the  Gulf  of  Genoa,  was  essen- 
tially a  mercantile  question  ;  but  whether,  of  the  two  ports  in 
sight  of  each  other,  Pisa  or  Genoa  was  to  be  the  Queen  of  the 
Tyrrhene  Sea,  was  no  less  distinctly  a  personal  one  thar 
which  of  two  rival  beauties  shall  preside  at  a  tournament. 

216.  This  personal  rivalry,  so  far  as  it  was  separated  from 
their  commercial  interests,  was  indeed  mortal,  but  not  malig- 
nant. The  quarrel  was  to  be  decided  to  the  death,  but  decided 
with  honour ;  and  each  city  had  four  observers  permittedly 
resident  in  the  other,  to  give  account  of  all  that  was  done 
there  in  naval  invention  and  armament. 

217.  Observe,  also,  in  the  year  1251,  when  wTe  quitted  our 
history,  we  left  Florence  not  only  Guelph,  as  against  the  Im- 
perial power,  (that  is  to  say,  the  body  of  her  knights  who 
favoured  the  Pope  and  Italians,  in  dominion  over  those  who 
favoured  Manfred  and  the  Germans),  but  wre  left  her  also 
definitely  with  her  apron  thrown  over  her  shield  ;  and  the 
tradesmen  and  craftsmen  in  authority  over  the  knight,  whether 
German  or  Italian,  Papal  or  Imperial. 

That  is  in  1251.  Now  in  these  last  two  lectures  I  must  try 
to  mark  the  gist  of  the  history  of  the  next  thirty  years.  The 
Thirty  Years'  War,  this,  of  the  middle  ages,  infinitely  im- 
portant to  all  ages  ;  first  observe,  between  Guelph  and 
Ghibelline,  ending  in  the  humiliation  of  the  Ghibelline  ;  and, 
secondly,  between  Shield  and  Apron,  or,  if  you  like  better, 
between  Spear  and  Hammer,  ending  in  the  breaking  of  the 
Spear. 

218.  The  first  decision  of  battle,  I  say,  is  that  between 
Guelph  and  Ghibelline,  headed  by  two  men  of  precisely 
opposite  characters,  Charles  of  Anjou  and  Manfred  of  Suabia. 
That  I  may  be  able  to  define  the  opposition  of  their  characters 
intelligibly,  I  must  first  ask  your  attention  to  some  points  of 
general  scholarship. 

I  said  in  my  last  lecture  that,  in  this  one,  it  would  be  need- 
ful for  us  to  consider  what  piety  was,  if  we  happened  not  to 
know ;  or  worse  than  that,  it  may  be,  not  instinctively  to  feel. 


338 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


Such  want  of  feeling  is  indeed  not  likely  in  you,  being  Eng- 
lish-bred ;  yet  as  it  is  the  modern  cant  to  consider  all  such 
sentiment  as  useless,  or  even  shameful,  we  shall  be  in  several 
ways  advantaged  by  some  examination  of  its  nature.  Of  all 
classical  writers,  Horace  is  the  one  with  whom  English  gen- 
tlemen have  on  the  average  most  sympathy ;  and  I  believe, 
therefore,  we  shall  most  simply  and  easily  get  at  our  point  by 
examining  the  piety  of  Horace. 

219.  You  are  perhaps,  for  the  moment,  surprised,  whatever 
might  have  been  admitted  of  iEneas,  to  hear  Horace  spoken 
of  as  a  pious  person.  But  of  course  when  your  attention  is 
turned  to  the  matter  you  will  recollect  many  lines  in  which 
the  word  '  pietas '  occurs,  of  which  you  have  only  hitherto 
failed  to  allow  the  force  because  you  supposed  Horace  did  not 
mean  what  he  said. 

220.  But  Horace  always  and  altogether  means  what  he  says. 
It  is  just  because — whatever  his  faults  may  have  been — he 
was  not  a  hypocrite,  that  English  gentlemen  are  so  fond  of 
him.  "Here  is  a  frank  fellow,  anyhow,"  they  say,  "and  a 
witty  one."  Wise  men  know  that  he  is  also  wise.  True  men 
know  that  he  is  also  true.  But  pious  men,  for  want  of  atten- 
tion, do  not  always  know  that  he  is  pious. 

One  great  obstacle  to  your  understanding  of  him  is  your 
having  been  forced  to  construct  Latin  verses,  with  introduction 
of  the  word  '  Jupiter '  always,  at  need,  wThen  you  were  at  a 
loss  for  a  dactyl.  You  always  feel  as  if  Horace  only  used  it 
also  when  he  wanted  a  dactyl. 

221.  Get  quit  of  that  notion  wholly.  All  immortal  writers 
speak  out  of  their  hearts.  Horace  spoke  out  of  the  abun- 
dance of  his  heart,  and  tells  you  precisely  what  he  is,  as  frankly 
as  Montaigne.  Note  then,  first,  how  modest  he  is  :  "  Ne  parva 
Tyrrhenum  per  aequor,  vela  darem  ; — Operosa  parvus,  carmina 
fin  go."  Trust  him  in  such  words  ;  he  absolutely  means  them  ; 
knows  thoroughly  that  he  cannot  sail  the  Tyrrhene  Sea, — 
knows  that  he  cannot  float  on  the  winds  of  Matinum, — can 
only  murmur  in  the  sunny  hollows  of  it  among  the  heath. 
But  note,  secondly,  his  pride  ;  "  Exegi  monumentum  sere  per- 
ennius."    He  is  not  the  least  afraid  to  say  that.    He  did  it; 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


333 


knew  he  had  clone  it ;  said  he  had  done  it ;  and  feared  no 
charge  of  arrogance. 

222.  Note  thirdly,  then,  his  piety,  and  accept  his  assured 
speech  of  it:  "  Dis  pietas  mea,  et  Musa,  cordi  est."  He  is 
perfectly  certain  of  that  also  ;  serenely  tells  you  so  ;  and  you 
had  better  believe  him.  Well  for  you,  if  you  can  believe  him  ; 
for  to  believe  him,  you  must  understand  him  first ;  and  I  can 
tell  you,  you  won't  arrive  at  that  understanding  by  looking 
out  the  word  '  pietas '  in  your  White-and-Riddle.  If  you  do, 
you  will  find  those  tiresome  contractions,  Etym.  Dub.,  stop 
your  inquiry  very  briefly,  as  you  go  back  ;  if  you  go  forward, 
through  the  Italian  pieta,  you  will  arrive  presently  in  another 
group  of  ideas,  and  end  in  misericordia,  mercy,  and  pity. 
You  must  not  depend  on  the  form  of  the  word  ;  you  must  find 
out  what  it  stands  for  in  Horace's  mind,  and  in  Virgil's. 
More  than  race  to  the  Roman  ;  more  than  powTer  to  the  states- 
man ;  yet  helpless  beside  the  grave, — "  Non,  Torquate,  genus, 
non  te  facundia,  non  te,  Restitvet  pietas." 

Nay,  also  what  it  stands  for  as  an  attribute,  not  only  of 
men,  but  of  gods ;  nor  of  those  only  as  merciful,  but  also  as 
avenging.  Against  iEneas  himself,  Dido  invokes  the  waves 
of  the  Tyrrhene  Sea,  "si  quid  pia  numina  possunt."  Be  as- 
sured there  is  no  getting  at  the  matter  by  dictionary  or  con- 
text. To  know  what  love  means,  you  must  love  ;  to  know 
what  piety  means,  you  must  be  pious. 

223.  Perhaps  you  dislike  the  word,  now,  from  its  vulgar 
use.  You  may  have  another  if  you  choose,  a  metaphorical 
one, — close  enough  it  seems  to  Christianity,  and  yet  still  ab- 
solutely distinct  from  it, — xPt(7T0'?-  Suppose,  as  you  watch 
the  white  bloom  of  the  olives  of  Val  d'Arno  and  Val  di  Nie- 
vole,  which  modern  piety  and  economy  suppose  were  grown 
by  God  only  to  supply  you  with  fine  Lucca  oil,  you  were  to 
consider,  instead,  what  answer  you  could  make  to  the  Socratic 
question,  -rrcOev  av  tis  tovto  to  ^ptcrfxa  XdfioL* 

224.  I  spoke  to  you  first  of-  Horace's  modesty.  All  piety 
begins  in  modesty.  You  must  feel  that  you  are  a  very  little 
creature,  and  that  you  had  better  do  as  you  are  bid.  You 

*  Xen.  Conviv.,  ii. 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


will  then  begin  to  think  what  you  are  bid  to  do,  and  who  bids 
it.  And  you  will  find,  unless  you  are  very  unhappy  indeed, 
that  there  is  always  a  quite  clear  notion  of  right  and  wrong  in 
your  minds,  which  you  can  either  obey  or  disobey,  at  your 
pleasure.  Obey  it  simply  and  resolutely ;  it  will  become 
clearer  to  you  every  day  :  and  in  obedience  to  it,  you  will  find 
a  sense  of  being  in  harmony  with  nature,  and  at  peace  with 
God,  and  all  His  creatures.  You  will  not  understand  how  the 
peace  comes,  nor  even  in  what  it  consists.  It  is  the  peace  that 
passes  understanding  ; — it  is  just  as  visionary  and  imaginative 
as  love  is,  and  just  as  real,  and  just  as  necessary  to  the  life  of 
man.  It  is  the  only  source  of  true  cheerfulness,  and  of  true 
common  sense  ;  and  whether  you  believe  the  Bible,  or  don't, 
— or  believe  the  Koran,  or  don't — or  believe  the  Vedas,  or 
don't— it  will  enable  you  to  believe  in  God,  and  please  Him, 
and  be  such  a  part  of  the  evSoKta  of  the  universe  as  your  nature 
fits  you  to  be,  in  His  sight,  faithful  in  awe  to  the  powers  that 
are  above  you,  and  gracious  in  regard  to  the  creatures  that 
are  around. 

225.  I  will  take  leave  on  this  head  to  read  one  more  piece 
of  Carlylej  bearing  much  on  present  matters.  "I  hope  also 
they  will  attack  earnestly,  and  at  length  extinguish  and  eradi- 
cate, this  idle  habit  of  'accounting  for  the  moral  sense/  as 
they  phrase  it.  A  most  singular  problem  ; — instead  of  bend- 
ing every  thought  to  have  more,  and  ever  more,  of  '  moral 
sense,'  and  therewith  to  irradiate  your  own  poor  soul,  and  all 
its  work,  into  something  of  divineness,  as  the  one  thing 
needful  to  you  in  this  world  !  A  very  futile  problem  that 
other,  my  friends  ;  futile,  idle,  and  far  worse  ;  leading  to 
what  moral  ruin,  you  little  dream  of !  The  moral  sense, 
thank  God,  is  a  thing  you  never  will  1  account  for  ; '  that,  if 
you  could  think  of  it,  is  the  perennial  miracle  of  man  ;  in  all 
times,  visibly  connecting  poor  transitory  man,  here  on  this 
bewildered  earth,  with  his  Maker  who  is  eternal  in  the  heav- 
ens. By  no  greatest  happiness  principle,  greatest  nobleness 
principle,  or  any  principle  whatever,  will  you  make  that  in 
the  least  clearer  than  it  already  is  ; — forbear,  I  say,  or  you 
may  darken  it  away  from  you  altogether  !  '  Two  things/  says 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


the  memorable  Kant,  deepest  and  most  logical  of  metaphys- 
ical thinkers,  '  two  things  strike  me  dumb  :  the  infinite  starry 
heavens  ;  and  the  sense  of  right  and  wrong  in  man.'  Visible 
infinites,  both  ;  say  nothing  of  them  ;  don't  try  to  '  account 
for  them     for  you  can  say  nothing  wise." 

226.  Very  briefly,  I  must  touch  one  or  two  further  relative 
conditions  in  this  natural  history  of  the  soul.  I  have  asked 
you  to  take  the  metaphorical,  but  distinct,  word  '  xptor/xa/  rather 
than  the  direct  but  obscure  one  '  piety  ' ;  mainly  because  the 
Master  of  your  religion  chose  the  metaphorical  epithet  for  the 
perpetual  one  of  His  own  life  and  person. 

But  if  you  will  spend  a  thoughtful  hour  or  two  in  reading 
the  scripture,  which  pious  Greeks  read,  not  indeed  on  dain- 
tily printed  paper,  but  on  daintily  painted  clay, — if  you  will 
examine,  that  is  to  say,  the  scriptures  of  the  Athenian  relig- 
ion, on  their  Pan-Athenaic  vases,  in  their  faithful  days,  you  will 
find  that  the  gift  of  the  literal  xpto-fia,  or  anointing  oil,  to  the 
victor  in  the  kingly  and  visible  contest  of  life,  is  signed  al- 
ways with  the  image  of  that  spirit  or  goddess  of  the  air  who 
was  the  source  of  their  invisible  life.  And  let  me,  before 
quitting  this  part  of  my  subject,  give  you  one  piece  of  what 
you  will  find  useful  counsel.  If  ever  from  the  right  apothe- 
cary, or  jjLvpoTTw\7]<;}  you  get  any  of  that  ^pur/xti, — don't  be 
careful,  when  you  set  it  by,  of  looking  for  dead  dragons  or 
dead  dogs  in  it.    But  look  out  for  the  dead  flies. 

227.  Again  ;  remember,  I  only  quote  St.  Paul  as  I  quote 
Xenophon  to  you  ;  but  I  expect  you  to  get  some  good  from 
both.  As  I  want  you  to  think  what  Xenophon  means  by 
* (xavrda?  so  I  want  you  to  consider  also  what  St.  Paul  means 
by  '  7rpo<f>7]Te[a. '  He  tells  you  to  prove  all  things, — to  hold 
fast  what  is  good,  and  not  to  despise  '  prophesyings/ 

228.  Now  it  is  quite  literally  probable,  that  this  world, 
having  now  for  some  five  hundred  years  absolutely  refused 
to  do  as  it  is  plainly  bid  by  every  prophet  that  ever  spoke  in 
any  nation,  and  having  reduced  itself  therefore  to  Saul's  con- 
dition, when  he  was  answered  neither  by  Urim  nor  by  proph- 
ets, may  be  now,  while  you  sit  there,  receiving  necromantic 
answers  from  the  witch  of  Endor.    But  with  that  possibility 


342 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


you  have  no  concern.  There  is  a  prophetic  power  in  youi 
own  hearts,  known  to  the  Greeks,  known  to  the  Jews,  known 
to  the  Apostles,  and  knowable  by  you.  If  it  is  now  silent  to 
you,  do  not  despise  it  by  tranquillity  under  that  privation  ; 
if  it  speaks  to  you,  do  not  despise  it  by  disobedience. 

229.  Now  in  this  broad  definition  of  Pietas,  as  reverence 
to  sentimental  law,  you  will  find  I  am  supported  by  all  clas- 
sical authority  and  use  of  this  word.  For  the  particular 
meaning  of  which  I  am  next  about  to  use  the  word  Keligion, 
there  is  no  such  general  authority,  nor  can  there  be,  for  any 
limited  or  accurate  meaning  of  it.  The  best  authors  use  the 
word  in  various  senses  ;  and  you  must  interpret  each  writer 
by  his  own  context.  I  have  myself  continually  used  the  term 
vaguely.  I  shall  endeavour,  henceforward,  to  use  it  under 
limitations  which,  willing  always  to  accept,  I  shall  only  trans- 
gress by  carelessness,  or  compliance  with  some  particular  use 
of  the  word  by  others.  The  power  in  the  word,  then,  which 
I  wish  you  now  to  notice,  is  in  its  employment  with  respect 
to  doctrinal  divisions.  You  do  not  say  that  one  man  is  of 
one  piety,  and  another  of  another  ;  but  you  do,  that  one  man 
is  of  one  religion,  and  another  of  another. 

230.  The  religion  of  any  man  is  thus  properly  to  be  inter- 
preted, as  the  feeling  which  binds  him,  irrationally,  to  the  ful- 
filment of  duties,  or  acceptance  of  beliefs,  peculiar  to  a  cer- 
tain company  of  which  he  forms  a  member,  as  distinct  from 
the  rest  of  the  world.  '  Which  binds  him  irrationally'  I  say  ; 
—by  a  feeling,  at  all  events,  apart  from  reason,  and  often 
superior  to  it ;  such  as  that  which  brings  back  the  bee  to  its 
hive,  and  the  bird  to  her  nest. 

A  man's  religion  is  the  form  of  mental  rest,  or  dwelling- 
place,  which,  partly,  his  fathers  have  gained  or  built  for  him, 
and  partly,  by  due  reverence  to  former  custom,  he  has  built 
for  himself  ;  consisting  of  whatever  imperfect  knowledge  may 
have  been  granted,  up  to  that  time,  in  the  land  of  his  birth,  of 
the  Divine  character,  presence,  and  dealings  ;  modified  by  the 
circumstances  of  surrounding  life. 

It  may  be,  that  sudden  accession  of  new  knowledge  may 
compel  him  to  cast  his  former  idols  to  the  moles  and  to  the 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


343 


bats.  But  it  must  be  some  very  miraculous  interposition  in- 
deed which  can  justify  him  in  quitting  the  religion  of  his 
forefathers  ;  and,  assuredly,  it  must  be  an  unwise  interposition 
which  provokes  him  to  insult  it. 

231.  On  the  other  hand,  the  value  of  religious  ceremonial, 
and  the  virtue  of  religious  truth,  consist  in  the  meek  fulfil- 
ment of  the  one  as  the  fond  habit  of  a  family ;  and  the  meek 
acceptance  of  the  other,  as  the  narrow  knowledge  of  a  child. 
And  both  are  destroyed  at  once,  and  the  ceremonial  or  doc- 
trinal prejudice  becomes  only  an  occasion  of  sin,  if  they  make 
us  either  wise  in  our  own  conceit,  or  violent  in  our  methods 
of  proselytism.  Of  those  who  will  compass  sea  and  land  to 
make  one  proselyte,  it  is  too  generally  true  that  they  are  them- 
selves the  children  of  hell,  and  make  their  proselytes  twofold 
more  so. 

232.  And  now  I  am  able  to  state  to  you,  in  terms  so  accu- 
rately defined  that  you  cannot  misunderstand  them,  that  we 
are  about  to  study  the  results  in  Italy  of  the  victory  of  an 
impious  Christian  over  a  pious  Infidel,  in  a  contest  which, 
if  indeed  principalities  of  evil  spirit  are  ever  permitted  to 
rule  over  the  darkness  of  this  world,  was  assuredly  by  them 
wholly  provoked,  and  by  them  finally  decided.  The  war  was 
not  actually  ended  until  the  battle  of  Tagliacozzo,  fought  in 
August,  1268  ;  but  you  need  not  recollect  that  irregular  date, 
or  remember  it  only  as  three  years  after  the  great  battle  of 
Welcome,  Benevento,  which  was  the  decisive  one.  Recollect, 
therefore,  securely : 

1250.  The  First  Trades  Revolt  in  Florence. 

1260.  Battle  of  the  Arbia. 

1265.  Battle  of  Welcome. 
Then  between  the  battle  of  Welcome  and  of  Tagliacozzo, 
(which  you  might  almost  English  in  the  real  meaning  of  it  as 
the  battle  of  Hart's  Death  :  '  cozzo '  is  a  butt  or  thrust  with 
the  horn,  and  you  may  well  think  of  the  young  Conradin  as  a 
wild  hart  or  stag  of  the  hills) — between  those  two  battles,  in 
1266,  comes  the  second  and  central  revolt  of  the  trades  in 
Florence,  of  which  I  have  to  speak  in  next  lecture. 

233.  The  two  German  princes  who  perished  in  these  two 


344 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


battles— Manfred  of  Tarentum,  and  his  nephew  and  ward  Con- 
radin  — are  the  natural  son,  and  the  legitimate  grandson  of 
Frederick  II.  :  they  are  also  the  last  assertors  of  the  infidel 
German  power  in  south  Italy  against  the  Church  ;  and  in  alli- 
ance with  the  Saracens  ;  such  alliance  having  been  maintained 
faithfully  ever  since  Frederick  II. 's  triumphal  entry  into  Jeru- 
salem, and  cornation  as  its  king.  Not  only  a  great  number 
of  Manfred's  forts  were  commanded  by  Saracen  governors, 
but  he  had  them  also  appointed  over  civil  tribunals.  My  own 
impression  is  that  he  found  the  Saracens  more  just  and  trust- 
worthy than  the  Christians  ;  but  it  is  proper  to  remember  the 
allegations  of  the  Church  against  the  whole  Suabian  family  ; 
namely,  that  Manfred  had  smothered  his  father  Frederick 
under  cushions  at  Ferentino  ;  and  that,  of  Frederick's  sons, 
Conrad  had  poisoned  Henry,  and  Manfred  had  poisoned  Con- 
rad. You  will,  however,  I  believe,  find  the  Prince  Manfred 
one  of  the  purest  representatives  of  northern  chivalry.  Against 
his  nephew,  educated  in  all  knightly  accomplishment  by  his 
mother,  Elizabeth  of  Bavaria,  nothing  could  be  alleged  by  his 
enemies,  even  when  resolved  on  his  death,  but  the  splendour 
of  his  spirit  and  the  brightness  of  his  youth. 

234.  Of  the  character  of  their  enemy,  Charles  of  Anjou, 
there  will  remain  on  your  minds,  after  careful  examination  of 
his  conduct,  only  the  doubt  whether  I  am  justified  in  speak- 
ing of  him  as  Christian  against  Infidel.  But  you  will  cease  to 
doubt  this  when  you  have  entirely  entered  into  the  conditions 
of  this  nascent  Christianity  of  the  thirteenth  century.  You 
will  find  that  while  men  who  desire  to  be  virtuous  receive  it 
as  the  mother  of  virtues,  men  who  desire  to  be  criminal  receive 
it  as  the  forgiver  of  crimes  ;  and  that  therefore,  between  Ghib- 
elline  or  Infidel  cruelty,  and  Guelph  or  Christian  cruelty, 
there  is  always  this  difference, — that  the  Infidel  cruelty  is 
done  in  hot  blood,  and  the  Christian's  in  cold.  I  hope  (in 
future  lectures  on  the  architecture  of  Pisa)  to  illustrate  to  you 
the  opposition  between  the  Ghibelline  Conti,  counts,  and  the 
Guelphic  Visconti,  viscounts  or  "  against  counts,"  which  is- 
sues, for  one  thing,  in  that,  by  all  men  blamed  as  too  deliber- 
ate, death  of  the  Count  Ugolino  della  Gherardesca.  The 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA, 


345 


Count  Ugolino  was  a  traitor,  who  entirely  deserved  death ; 
but  another  Count  of  Pisa,  entirely  faithful  to  the  Ghibelline 
cause,  was  put  to  death  by  Charles  of  Anjou,  not  only  in  cold 
blood,  but  with  resolute  infliction  of  Ugolino's  utmost  grief ; 
— not  in  the  dungeon,  but  in  the  full  light  of  clay — his  son  be- 
ing first  put  to  death  before  his  eyes.  And  among  the  pieces 
of  heraldry  most  significant  in  the  middle  ages,  the  asp  on 
the  shield  of  the  Guelphic  viscounts  is  to  be  much  remem- 
bered by  you  as  a  sign  of  this  merciless  cruelty  of  mistaken 
religion  ;  mistaken,  but  not  in  the  least  hypocritical.  It  has 
perfect  confidence  in  itself,  and  can  answer  with  serenity  for 
all  its  deeds.  The  serenity  of  heart  never  appears  in  the 
guilty  Infidels  ;  they  die  in  despair  or  gloom,  greatly  satis- 
factory to  adverse  religious  minds. 

235.  The  French  Pope,  then,  Urban  of  Troyes,  had  sent  for 
Charles  of  Anjou  ;  who  would  not  have  answered  his  call, 
even  with  all  the  strength  of  Anjou  and  Provence,  had  not 
Scylla  of  the  Tyrrhene  Sea  been  on  his  side.  Pisa,  with 
eighty  galleys  (the  Sicilian  fleet  added  to  her  own),  watched 
and  defended  the  coasts  of  Eome.  An  irresistible  storm  drove 
her  fleet  to  shelter  ;  and  Charles,  in  a  single  ship,  reached  the 
mouth  of  the  Tiber,  and  found  lodgings  at  Rome  in  the  con- 
vent of  St.  Paul.  His  wife  meanwhi]e  spent  her  dowry  in  in- 
creasing his  laud  army,  and  led  it  across  the  Alps.  How  he 
had  got  his  wife,  and  her  dowry,  we  must  hear  in  Villains 
words,  as  nearly  as  I  can  give  their  force  in  English,  only,  in- 
stead of  the  English  word  pilgrim,  I  shall  use  the  Italian 
*  romeo,'  for  the  sake  both  of  all  English  Juliets,  and  that  you 
may  better  understand  the  close  of  the  sixth  canto  of  the 
Paradise. 

236.  "Now  the  Count  Raymond  Berenger  had  for  his  in- 
heritance all  Provence  on  this  side  Rhone  ;  and  he  was  a  wise 
and  courteous  signor,  and  of  noble  state,  and  virtuous ;  and 
in  his  time  they  did  honourable  things  ;  and  to  his  court 
came  by  custom  all  the  gentlemen  of  Provence,  and  France, 
and  Catalonia,  for  his  courtesy  and  noble  state  ;  and  there  they 
made  many  cobbled  verses,  and  Provencal  songs  of  great  sen- 
tences/' 


846 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


237.  I  must  stop  to  tell  you  that  1  cobbled '  or  <  coupled* 
verses  mean  rhymes,  as  opposed  to  the  dull  method  of  Latin 
verse  ;  for  we  have  now  got  an  ear  for  jingle,  and  know  that 
dove  rhymes  to  love.  Also,  "songs  of  great  sentences"  mean 
didactic  songs,  containing  much  in  little,  (like  the  new 
didactic  Christian  painting,)  of  which  an  example  (though  of 
a  later  time)  will  give  you  a  better  idea  than  any  description. 

M  Vraye  foy  de  necessite, 

Non  tant  seulernent  d'equite, 

Nous  fait  de  Dieu  sept  ehoses  croire  : 

C'est  sa  doulce  nativite, 

Son  baptesme  d'humilite, 

Et  sa  mort.  digne  de  memoire : 

Son  descens  en  la  cliartre  noire, 

Et  sa  resurrection,  voire  ; 

S'ascencion  d'auctorite, 

La  venue  judicatoire, 

Ou  ly  bons  seront  mis  en  gloire, 

Et  ly  mals  en  adversite." 

238.  "  And  while  they  were  making  these  cobbled  verses 
and  harmonious  creeds,  there  came  a  romeo  to  court,  return- 
ing from  the  shrine  of  St.  James."  I  must  stop  again  just  to 
say  that  he  ought  to  have  been  called  a  pellegrino,  not  a 
romeo,  for  the  three  kinds  of  wanderers  are,- — Palmer,  one 
who  goes  to  the  Holy  Land  ;  Pilgrim,  one  who  goes  to  Spain ; 
and  Borneo,  one  who  goes  to  Rome.  Probably  this  romeo 
had  been  to  both.  "  He  stopped  at  Count  Raymond's  court, 
and  was  so  wise  and  worthy  (valoroso),  and  so  won  the  Count  s 
grace,  that  he  made  him  his  master  and  guide  in  all  things. 
Who  alsoj  maintaining  himself  in  honest  and  religious  cus- 
toms of  life,  in  a  little  time,  by  his  industry  and  good  sense, 
doubled  the  Count's  revenues  three  times  over,  maintaining 
always  a  great  and  honoured  court.  Now  the  Count  had  four 
daughters,  and  no  son  ;  and  by  the  sense  and  provision  of  the 
good  romeo — (I  can  do  no  better  than  translate  ' procaccio  ' 
provision,  but  it  is  only  a  makeshift  for  the  word  derived  from 
procax,  meaning  the  general  talent  of  prudent  impudence,  in 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


347 


getting  forward  ;  '  forwardness/  has  a  good  deal  of  the  true 
sense,  only  diluted  ;) — well,  by  the  sense  and — progressive 
faculty,  shall  we  say  ? — of  the  good  pilgrim,  he  first  married 
the  eldest  daughter,  by  means  of  money,  to  the  good  King 
Louis  of  France,  saying  to  the  Count,  '  Let  me  alone, — Lascia- 
mi-fare — and  never  mind  the  expense,  for  if  you  marry  the 
first  one  well,  I'll  marry  you  all  the  others  cheaper,  for  her 
relationship.' 

239.  "And  so  it  fell  out,  sure  enough;  for  incontinently 
the  King  of  England  (Henry  III.)  because  he  was  the  King  of 
France's  relation,  took  the  next  daughter,  Eleanor,  for  very 
little  money  indeed  ;  next,  his  natural  brother,  elect  King  of 
the  Romans,  took  the  third  ;  and,  the  youngest  still  remaining 
unmarried, — says  the  good  romeo,  'Now  for  this  one,  I  will 
you  to  have  a  strong  man  for  son-in-law,  who  shall  be  thy 
heir  ; ' — and  so  he  brought  it  to  pass.  For  finding  Charles, 
Count  of  Anjou,  brother  of  the  King  Louis,  he  said  to  Ray- 
mond, 6  Give  her  now  to  him,  for  his  fate  is  to  be  the  best 
man  in  the  world/ — prophesying  of  him.  And  so  it  was  done. 
And  after  all  this  it  came  to  pass,  by  envy  which  ruins  all 
good,  that  the  barons  of  Provence  became  jealous  of  the  good 
romeo,  and  accused  him  to  the  Count  of  having  ill-guided  his 
goods,  and  made  Raymond  demand  account  of  thern.  Then 
the  good  romeo  said,  '  Count,  I  have  served  thee  long,  and 
have  put  thee  from  little  state  into  mighty,  and  for  this,  by 
false  counsel  of  thy  people,  thou  art  little  grateful.  I  came 
into  thy  court  a  poor  romeo  ;  I  have  lived  honestly  on  thy 
means  ;  now,  make  to  be  given  to  me  my  little  mule  and  my 
staff  and  my  wallet,  as  I  came,  and  I  will  make  thee  quit  of 
all  my  service.'  The  Count  would  not  he  should  go  ;  but  for 
nothing  would  he  stay  ;  and  so  he  came,  and  so  he  departed, 
that  no  one  ever  knew  whence  he  had  come,  nor  whither  he 
went.  It  was  the  thought  of  many  that  he  was  indeed  a 
sacred  spirit." 

240.  This  pilgrim,  you  are  to  notice,  is  put  by  Dante  in  the 
orb  of  justice,  as  a  just  servant ;  the  Emperor  Justinian  being 
the  image  of  a  just  ruler.  Justinian's  law-making  turned  out 
well  for  England  ;  but  the  good  rcmeo's  match-making  ended 


348 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


ill  for  it ;  and  for  Eome,  and  Naples  also.  For  Beatrice  of 
Provence  resolved  to  be  a  queen  like  her  three  sisters,  and 
was  the  prompting  spirit  of  Charles's  expedition  to  Italy. 
She  was  crowned  with  him,  Queen  of  Apulia  and  Sicily,  on 
the  day  of  the  Epiphany,  1265  ;  she  and  her  husband  bring- 
ing gifts  that  day  of  magical  power  enough  ;  and  Charles,  as 
soon  as  the  feast  of  coronation  was  over,  set  out  to  give  battle 
to  Manfred  and  his  Saracens.  "  And  this  Charles,"  says  Vil- 
lani,  "  wras  wise,  and  of  sane  counsel  ;  and  of  prowTess  in 
arms,  and  fierce,  and  much  feared  and  redoubted  by  all  the 
kings  in  the  world  ; — magnanimous  and  of  high  purposes  ; 
fearless  in  the  carrying  forth  of  every  great  enterprise  ;  firm 
in  every  adversity  ;  a  verifier  of  his  every  word  ;  speaking 
little, — doing  much  ;  and  scarcely  ever  laughed,  and  then  but 
a  little  ;  sincere,  and  without  flaw,  as  a  religious  and  catholic 
person  ;  stern  in  justice,  and  fierce  in  look  ;  tall  and  nervous 
in  person,  olive  coloured,  and  with  a  large  nose,  and  well  he 
appeared  a  royal  majesty  more  than  other  men.  Much  he 
watched,  and  little  he  slept ;  and  used  to  say  that  so  much 
time  as  one  slept,  one  lost ;  generous  to  his  men-at-arms,  but 
covetous  to  acquire  land,  signory,  and  coin,  come  how  it 
would,  to  furnish  his  enterprises  and  wars  :  in  courtiers,  ser- 
vants of  pleasure,  or  jocular  persons,  he  delighted  never." 

241.  To  this  newly  crowmed  and  resolute  king,  riding  south 
from  Rome,  Manfred,  from  his  vale  of  Nocera  under  Mount 
St,  Angelo,  sends  to  offer  conditions  of  peace.  Jehu  the  son 
of  Nimshi  is  not  swifter  of  answer  to  Ahaziah's  messenger 
than  the  fiery  Christian  king,  in  his  '  What  hast  thou  to  do 
with  peace  ?  '  Charles  answrers  the  messengers  with  his  own 
lips  :  "  Tell  the  Sultan  of  Nocera,  this  day  I  will  put  him  in 
hell,  or  he  shall  put  me  in  paradise." 

242.  Do  not  think  it  the  speech  of  a  hypocrite.  Charles 
was  as  fully  prepared  for  death  that  day  as  ever  Scotch  Cove- 
nanter fighting  for  his  Holy  League  ;  and  as  sure  that  death 
would  find  him,  if  it  found,  only  to  glorify  and  bless.  Bal- 
four of  Burley  against  Claverhouse  is  not  more  convinced  in 
heart  that  he  draws  the  sword  of  the  Lord  and  of  Gideon. 
But  all  the  knightly  pride  of  Claverhouse  himself  is  knit  to* 


THE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


349 


pettier,  in  Charles,  with  fearless  faith,  and  religious  wrath. 
"  This  Saracen  scum,  led  by  a  bastard  German, — traitor  to 
his  creed,  usurper  among  his  race, — dares  it  look  me,  a  Chris- 
tian knight,  a  prince  of  the  house  of  France,  in  the  eyes  ? 
Tell  the  Sultan  of  Nocera,  to-day  I  put  him  in  hell,  or  he  puts 
me  in  paradise." 

They  are  not  passionate  words  neither ;  any  more  than  hyp- 
ocritical ones.  They  are  measured,  resolute,  and  the  fewest 
possible.  He  never  wasted  words,  nor  showed  his  mind,  but 
when  he  meant  it  should  be  known. 

243.  The  messenger  returned,  thus  answered ;  and  tho 
French  king  rode  on  with  his  host.  Manfred  met  him  in 
the  plain  of  Grandella,  before  Benevento.  I  have  translated 
the  name  of  the  fortress  'Welcome.'  It  was  altered,  as  you 
may  remember,  from  Mai  even  turn,  for  better  omen  ;  perhaps, 
originally,  only  /xaXoets — a  rock  full  of  wild  goats  ? — -associat- 
ing it  thus  with  the  meaning  of  Tagliacozzo. 

244.  Charles  divided  his  army  into  four  companies.  The 
captain  of  his  own  was  our  English  Guy  de  Montfort,  on  whom 
rested  the  power  and  the  fate  of  his  grandfather,  the  pursuer 
of  the  Waldensian  shepherds  among  the  rocks  of  the  wild 
goats.  The  last,  and  it  is  said  the  goodliest,  troop  was  of 
the  exiled  Guelphs  of  Florence,  under  Guido  Guerra,  whose 
name  you  already  know.  "  These, "  said  Manfred,  as  lie 
watched  them  ride  into  their  ranks,  " cannot  lose  to-day."  He 
meant  that  if  he  himself  was  the  victor,  he  would  restore 
these  exiles  to  their  city.  The  event  of  the  battle  was  decided 
by  the  treachery  of  the  Count  of  Caserta,  Manfred's  brother- 
in-law.  At  the  end  of  the  day  only  a  few  knights  remained 
with  him,  whom  he  led  in  the  last  charge.  As  he  helmed 
himself,  the  crest  fell  from  his  helmet.  "  Hoc  est  signum 
Dei,"  he  said, — so  accepting  what  he  saw  to  be  the  purpose 
of  the  Euler  of  all  things ;  not  claiming  God  as  his  friend, 
not  asking  anything  of  Him,  as  if  His  purpose  could  be 
changed  ;  not  fearing  Him  as  an  enemy  ;  but  accepting  simply 
His  sign  that  the  appointed  day  of  death  was  come.  He  rode 
into  the  battle  armed  like  a  nameless  soldier,  and  lay  un- 
known among  the  dead. 


350 


VAL  D'APNO. 


245.  And  in  him  died  all  southern  Italy.  Never,  after  that 
day's  treachery,  did  her  nobles  rise,  or  her  people  prosper. 

Of  the  finding  of  the  body  of  Manfred,  and  its  casting 
forth,  accursed,  you  in  ay  read,  if  you  will,  the  story  in  Dante. 
I  trace  for  you  to-day  rapidly  only  the  acts  of  Charles  after 
this  victory,  and  its  consummation,  three  years  later,  by  the 
defeat  of  Conradin. 

The  town  of  Benevento  had  offered  no  resistance  to  Charles, 
but  he  gave  it  up  to  pillage,  and  massacred  its  inhabitants. 
The  slaughter,  indiscriminate,  continued  for  eight  days  ;  the 
women  and  children  were  slain  with  the  men,  being  of  Sara- 
cen blood.  Manfred's  wife,  Sybil  of  Epirus,  his  children,  and 
all  his  barons,  died,  or  were  put  to  death,  in  the  prisons  of 
Provence.  With  the  young  Conrad,  all  the  faithful  Ghibel- 
line  knights  of  Pisa  were  put  to  death.  The  son  of  Freder- 
ick of  Antioch,  who  drove  the  Guelphs  from  Florence,  had 
his  eyes  torn  out,  and  was  hanged,  he  being  the  last  child  of 
the  house  of  Suabia.  Twenty-four  of  the  barons  of  Calabria 
were  executed  at  Gallipoli,  and  at  Rome.  Charles  cut  off  the 
feet  of  those  who  had  fought  for  Conrad  ;  then — fearful  lest 
they  should  be  pitied — shut  them  into  a  house  of  wood, 
and  burned  them.  His  lieutenant  in  Sicily,  William  of  the 
Standard,  besieged  the  town  of  Augusta,  which  defended  it- 
self with  some  fortitude,  but  was  betrayed,  and  all  its  inhab- 
itants, (who  must  have  been  more  than  three  thousand,  for 
there  were  a  thousand  able  to  bear  arms,)  massacred  in  cold 
blood  ;  the  last  of  them  searched  for  in  their  hiding-places, 
when  the  streets  were  empty,  dragged  to  the  sea-shore,  then 
beheaded,  and  their  bodies  thrown  into  the  sea.  Throughout 
Calabria  the  Christian  judges  of  Charles  thus  forgave  his 
enemies.  And  the  Mohammedan  power  and  heresy  ended  in 
Italy,  and  she  became  secure  in  her  Catholic  creed. 

246.  Not  altogether  secure  under  French  dominion.  After 
fourteen  years  of  misery,  Sicily  sang  her  angry  vespers,  and 
a  Calabrian  admiral  burnt  the  fleet  of  Charles  before  his  eyes, 
where  Scylla  rules  her  barking  Salamis.  But  the  French 
king  died  in  prayerful  peace,  receiving  the  sacrament  with 
these  words  of  perfectly  honest  faith,  as  he  reviewed  his  pasc 


TEE  TYRRHENE  SEA. 


351 


life  :  "Lord  God,  as  I  truly  believe  that  you  are  my  Saviour, 
so  I  pray  you  to  have  mercy  on  my  soul ;  and  as  I  truly  made 
the  conquest  of  Sicily  more  to  serve  the  Holy  Church  than 
for  my  own  covetousness,  so  I  pray  you  to  pardon  my  sins." 

247.  You  are  to  note  the  two  clauses  of  this  prayer.  He 
prays  absolute  mercy,  on  account  of  his  faith  in  Christ ;  but 
remission  of  purgatory,  in  proportion  to  the  quantity  of  good 
wrork  he  has  done,  or  meant  to  do,  as  against  evil.  You  are 
so  much  wiser  in  these  days,  you  think,  not  believing  in  pur- 
gatory ;  and  so  much  more  benevolent, — not  massacring 
women  and  children.  But  we  must  not  be  too  proud  of  not 
believing  in  purgatory,  unless  we  are  quite  sure  of  our  real 
desire  to  be  purified  :  and  as  to  our  not  massacring  children, 
it  is  true  that  an  English  gentleman  will  not  now  himself 
willingly  put  a  knife  into  the  throat  either  of  a  child  or  a 
Limb ;  but  he  will  kill  any  quantity  of  children  by  disease  in 
order  to  increase  his  rents,  as  unconcernedly  as  he  will  eat 
any  quantity  of  mutton.  And  as  to  absolute  massacre,  I  do 
not  suppose  a  child  feels  so  much  pain  in  being  killed  as  a 
full-grown  man,  and  its  life  is  of  less  value  to  it.  No  pain 
either  of  body  or  thought  through  which  you  could  put  an 
infant,  would  be  comparable  to  that  of  a  good  son,  or  a  faith- 
ful lover,  dying  slowly  of  a  painful  wound  at  a  distance  from 
a  family  dependent  upon  him,  or  a  mistress  devoted  to  him. 
But  the  victories  of  Charles,  and  the  massacres,  taken  in  sum, 
would  not  give  a  muster-roll  of  more  than  twenty  thousand 
dead;  men,  women,  and  children  counted  all  together.  On 
the  plains  of  France,  since  I  first  began  to  speak  to  you  on 
the  subject  of  the  arts  of  peace,  at  least  five  hundred  thousand 
men,  in  the  prime  of  life,  have  been  massacred  by  the  folly 
of  one  Christian  emperor,  the  insolence  of  another,  and  the 
mingling  of  mean  rapacity  with  meaner  vanity,  which  Chris- 
tian nations  now  call  'patriotism.' 

248.  But  that  the  Crusaders,  (whether  led  by  St.  Louis  or 
by  his  brother,)  who  habitually  lived  by  robbery,  and  might 
be  swiftly  enraged  to  murder,  were  still  too  savage  to  con- 
ceive the  spirit  or  the  character  of  this  Christ  whose  cross 
they  wear,  I  have  again  and  again  alleged  to  you  ;  not,  I  im- 


352 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


agine,  without  question  from  many  who  have  been  accustomed 
to  look  to  these  earlier  ages  as  authoritative  in  doctrine,  if 
not  in  example.  We  alike  err  in  supposing  them  more  spirit- 
ual or  more  dark,  than  our  own.  They  had  not  yet  attained 
to  the  knowledge  which  we  have  despised,  nor  dispersed 
from  their  faith  the  shadows  with  which  we  have  again  over- 
clouded ours. 

Their  passions,  tumultuous  and  merciless  as  the  Tyrrhene 
Sea,  raged  indeed  with  the  danger,  but  also  with  the  uses,  of 
naturally  appointed  storm  ;  while  ours,  pacific  in  corruption, 
languish  in  vague  maremma  of  misguided  pools  ;  and  are 
pestilential  most  surely  as  they  retire, 


LECTURE  X. 

FLEUR  DE  LYS. 

249.  Tpirough  all  the  tempestuous  winter  which  during  the 
period  of  history  we  have  been  reviewing,  weakened,  in  their 
war  with  the  opposed  rocks  of  religious  or  knightly  pride,  the 
waves  of  the  Tuscan  Sea,  there  has  been  slow  increase  of  the 
Favonian  power  which  is  to  bring  fruitfulness  to  the  rock, 
peace  to  the  wave.  The  new  element  which  is  introduced  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  and  perfects  for  a  little  time  the  work 
of  Christianity,  at  least  in  some  few  chosen  souls,  is  the  law 
of  Order  and  Charity,  of  intellectual  and  moral  virtue,  which 
it  now  became  the  function  of  every  great  artist  to  teach,  and 
of  every  true  citizen  to  maintain. 

250.  I  have  placed  on  your  table  one  of  the  earliest  existing 
engravings  by  a  Florentine  hand,  representing  the  conception 
which  the  national  mind  formed  of  this  spirit  of  order  and 
tranquillity,  "  Cosmico,"  or  the  Equity  of  Kosmos,  not  by 
senseless  attraction,  but  by  spiritual  thought  and  law.  He 
stands  pointing  with  his  left  hand  to  the  earth,  set  only  with 
tufts  of  grass  ;  in  his  right  hand  he  holds  the  ordered  system 
of  the  universe— heaven  and  earth  in  one  orb  ; — the  heaven 
made  cosmic  by  the  courses  of  its  stars ;  the  earth  cosmic  by 


F LEU  It  BE  LTS. 


353 


the  seats  of  authority  and  fellowship, — castles  on  the  hills  and 
cities  in  the  plain. 

251.  The  tufts  of  grass  under  the  feet  of  this  figure  will  ap- 
pear to  you,  at  first,  grotesquely  formal.  But  they  are  only 
the  simplest  expression,  in  such  herbage,  of  the  subjection  of 
all  vegetative  force  to  this  law  of  order,  equity,  or  symmetry, 
which,  made  by  the  Greek  the  principal  method  of  his  current 
vegetative  sculpture,  subdues  it,  in  the  hand  of  Cora  or  Trip- 
tolemus,  into  the  merely  triple  sceptre,  or  animates  it,  in  Flor- 
ence, to  the  likeness  of  the  Fleur-de-lys. 

252.  I  have  already  stated  to  you  that  if  any  definite  flower 
is  meant  by  these  triple  groups  of  leaves,  which  take  their 
authoritatively  typical  form  in  the  crowms  of  the  Cretan  and 
Lacinian  Hera,  it  is  not  the  violet,  but  the  purple  iris ;  or 
sometimes,  as  in  Pindar's  description  of  the  birth  of  Iamus, 
the  yellow  water-flag,  which  you  know  so  well  in  spring,  by 
the  banks  of  your  Oxford  streams.*  But,  in  general,  it  means 
simply  the  springing  of  beautiful  and  orderly  vegetation  in 
fields  upon  wThich  the  dew  falls  pure.  It  is  the  expression, 
therefore,  of  peace  on  the  redeemed  and  cultivated  earth,  and 
of  the  pleasure  of  heaven  in  the  uncareful  happiness  of  men 
clothed  without  labour,  and  fed  without  fear. 

253.  In  the  passage,  so  often  read  by  us,  which  announces 
the  advent  of  Christianity  as  the  dawn  of  peace  on  earth,  we 
habitually  neglect  great  part  of  the  promise,  owing  to  the 
false  translation  of  the  second  clause  of  the  sentence.  I  can- 
not understand  how  it  should  be  still  needful  to  point  out  to 
you  here  in  Oxford  that  neither  the  Greek  words  "iv  avOpurirois 
cuSo/aa,"  nor  those  of  the  vulgate,  "  in  terra  pax  hominibus 

*  In  the  catalogues  of  the  collection  of  drawings  in  this  room,  and  in 
my  "  Queen  of  the  Air  "  you  will  find  all  that  I  would  ask  you  to  notice 
about  the  various  names  and  kinds  of  the  flower,  and  their  symbolic 
use. — Note  only, with  respect  to  our  present  purpose,  that  while  the  true 
white  lily  is  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  Angel  of  the  Annunciation  even 
by  Florentine  artists,  in  their  general  design,  the  fleur-de-lys  is  given  to 
him  by  Giovanni  Pisano  on  the  facade  of  Orvieto;  and  that  the  flower  in 
the  crown-circlets  of  European  kings  answers,  as  I  stated  to  you  in  my 
lecture  on  the  Corona,  to  the  Narcissus  fillet  of  early  Greece  ;  the  crown 
of  abundance  and  rejoicing. 


354 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


bonas  voluntatis, "  in  the  slightest  degree  justify  our  English 
words,  "goodwill  to  men." 

Of  God's  goodwill  to  men,  and  to  all  creatures,  for  ever, 
there  needed  no  proclamation  by  angels.  But  that  men  should 
be  able  to  please  Him, — that  their  wills  should  be  made  holy, 
and  they  should  not  only  possess  peace  in  themselves,  but  bo 
able  to  give  joy  to  their  God,  in  the  sense  in  which  He  after- 
wards is  pleased  with  His  own  baptized  Son  ; — this  was  a  new 
thing  for  Angels  to  declare,  and  for  shepherds  to  believe, 

254.  And  the  error  was  made  yet  more  fatal  by  its  repeti- 
tion in  a  passage  of  parallel  importance, — the  thanksgiving, 
namely,  offered  by  Christ,  that  His  Father,  while  He  had  hid- 
den what  it  was  best  to  know,  not  from  the  wise  and  prudent, 
but  from  some  among  the  wise  and  prudent,  and  had  revealed 
it  unto  babes  ;  not  ( for  so  it  seemed  good  '  in  His  sight,  but 
'  that  there  might  be  well  pleasing  in  His  sight/ — namely,  that 
the  wise  and  simple  might  equally  live  in  the  necessary  knowl- 
edge, and  enjoyed  presence,  of  God.  And  if,  having  accurate- 
ly read  these  vital  passages,  you  then  as  carefully  consider  the 
tenour  of  the  two  songs  of  human  joy  in  the  birth  of  Christ, 
the  Magnificat,  and  the  Nunc  dimittis,  you  will  find  the  theme 
of  both  to  be,  not  the  newness  of  blessing,  but  the  equity 
which  disappoints  the  cruelty  and  humbles  the  strength  of 
men  ;  which  scatters  the  proud  in  the  imagination  of  their 
hearts  ;  which  fills  the  hungry  with  good  things  ;  and  is  not 
only  the  glory  of  Israel,  but  the  light  of  the  Gentiles. 

255.  As  I  have  been  writing  these  paragraphs,  I  have  been 
checking  myself  almost  at  every  word, — wondering,  Will  they 
be  restless  on  their  seats  at  this,  and  thinking  all  the  while 
that  they  did  not  come  here  to  be  lectured  on  Divinity  ?  You 
may  have  been  a  little  impatient, — how  could  it  well  be  other- 
wise ?  Had  I  been  explaining  points  of  anatomy,  and  showing 
you  how  you  bent  your  necks  and  straightened  your  legs,  you 
would  have  thought  me  quite  in  my  proper  function  ;  because 
then,  when  you  went  with  a  party  of  connoisseurs  through  the 
Vatican,  you  could  point  out  to  them  the  insertion  of  the  clav- 
icle in  the  Apollo  Belvidere  ;  and  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  the 
perfectly  accurate  delineation  of  the  tibia  in  the  legs  of  Christ. 


FLEUR  BE  LYS. 


355 


Doubtless  ;  but  you  know  I  am  lecturing  at  present  on  tli8 
goffi,  and  not  on  Michael  Angelo  ;  and  the  goffi  are  very  care- 
less about  clavicles  and  shin-bones  ;  so  that  if,  after  being 
lectured  on  anatomy,  you  went  into  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa, 
you  would  simply  find  nothing  to  look  at,  except  three  tol- 
erably well-drawn  skeletons.  But  if  after  being  lectured  on 
theology,  you  go  into  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa,  you  will  find 
not  a  little  to  look  at,  and  to  remember. 

256.  For  a  single  instance,  you  know  Michael  Angelo  is  ad- 
mitted to  have  been  so  far  indebted  to  these  goffi  as  to  borrow 
from  the  one  to  whose  study  of  mortality  I  have  just  referred, 
Orcagna,  the  gesture  of  his  Christ  in  the  Judgment.  He  bor- 
rowed, however,  accurately  speaking,  the  position  only,  not 
the  gesture  ;  nor  the  meaning  of  it*  You  all  remember  the 
action  of  Michael  Angelo's  Christ, — the  right  hand  raised  as 
if  in  violence  of  reprobation  ;  and  the  left  closed  across  His 
breast,  as  refusing  all  mercy.  The  action  is  one  which  appeals 
to  persons  of  very  ordinary  sensations,  and  is  very  naturally 
adopted  by  the  Renaissance  painter,  both  for  its  popular  effect, 
and  its  capabilities  for  the  exhibition  of  his  surgical  science. 
But  the  old  painter-theologian,  though  indeed  he  showed  the 
right  hand  of  Christ  lifted,  and  the  left  hand  laid  across  His 
breast,  had  another  meaning  in  the  actions.  The  fingers  of 
the  left  hand  are  folded,  in  both  the  figures  ;  but  in  Michael 
Angelo's  as  if  putting  aside  an  appeal ;  in  Orcagna's,  the  fin- 
gers are  bent  to  draw  back  the  drapery  from  the  right  side. 
The  right  hand  is  raised  by  Michael  Angelo  as  in  anger  ;  by 
Orcagna,  only  to  show  the  wounded  palm.  And  as,  to  the 
believing  disciples,  He  showed  them  His  hands  and  His  side, 
so  that  they  were  glad, — so,  to  the  unbelievers,  at  their  judg- 
ment, He  shows  the  wounds  in  hand  and  side.  They  shall 
look  on  Him  whom  they  pierced. 

257.  And  thus,  as  we  follow  our  proposed  examination  of 
the  arts  of  the  Christian  centuries,  our  understanding  of  their 
work  will  be  absolutely  limited  by  the  degree  of  our  sympathy 
With  the  religion  which  our  fathers  have  bequeathed  to  us. 

*  I  found  all  this  in  M.  Didron's  Iconographie,  above  quoted  ;  I  had 
never  noticed  the  difference  between  the  two  figures  niyself. 


856 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


You  cannot  interpret  classic  marbles  without  knowing  and 
loving  your  Pindar  and  iEschylus,  neither  can  you  interpret 
Christian  pictures  without  knowing  and  loving  your  Isaiah  and 
Matthew.  And  I  shall  have  continually  to  examine  texts  of 
the  one  as  I  would  verses  of  the  other  ;  nor  must  you  retract 
yourselves  from  the  labour  in  suspicion  that  I  desire  to  betray 
your  scepticism,  or  undermine  your  positivism,  because  I  rec- 
ommend to  you  the  accurate  study  of  books  which  have 
hitherto  been  the  light  of  the  world. 

258.  The  change,  then,  in  the  minds  of  their  readers  at  this 
date,  which  rendered  it  possible  for  them  to  comprehend  the 
full  purport  of  Christianity,  was  in  the  rise  of  the  new  desire 
for  equity  and  rest,  amidst  what  had  hitherto  been  mere  lust 
for  spoil,  and  joy  in  battle.  The  necessity  for  justice  was  felt 
in  the  now  extending  commerce  ;  the  desire  of  rest  in  the  now 
pleasant  and  fitly  furnished  habitation  ;  and  the  energy  which 
formerly  could  only  be  satisfied  in  strife,  now  found  enough 
both  of  provocation  and  antagonism  in  the  invention  of  art, 
and  the  forces  of  nature.  I  have  in  this  course  of  lectures 
endeavoured  to  fasten  your  attention  on  the  Florentine  Eevo- 
lution  of  1250,  because  its  date  is  so  easily  memorable,  and  it 
involves  the  principles  of  every  subsequent  one,  so  as  to  lay 
at  once  the  foundations  of  whatever  greatness  Florence  after- 
wards achieved  by  her  mercantile  and  civic  power.  But  I 
must  not  close  even  this  slight  sketch  of  the  central  history  of 
Val  d'Arno  without  requesting  you,  as  you  find  time,  to  asso- 
ciate in  your  minds,  with  this  first  revolution,  the  effects  of 
two  which  followed  it,  being  indeed  necessary  parts  of  it,  in 
the  latter  half  of  the  century. 

259.  Remember  then  that  the  first,  in  1250,  is  embryonic ; 
and  the  significance  of  it  is  simply  the  establishment  of  order, 
and  justice  against  violence  and  iniquity.  It  is  equally  against 
the  power  of  knights  and  priests,  so  far  as  either  are  unjust, 
— not  otherwise. 

When  Manfred  fell  at  Benevento,  his  lieutenant,  the  Count 
Guido  Novello,  was  in  command  of  Florence.  He  was  just, 
but  weak  ;  and  endeavoured  to  temporize  with  the  Guelphs. 
His  effort  ought  to  be  notable  to  you,  because  it  was  one  of 


F LEV  11  BE  LYS. 


357 


the  wisest  and  most  far-sighted  ever  made  in  Italy  ;  but  it 
failed  for  want  of  resolution,  as  the  gentlest  and  best  men  are 
too  apt  to  fail.  He  brought  from  Bologna  twro  knights  of  the 
order — then  recently  established — of  joyful  brethren  ;  after- 
wards too  fatally  corrupted,  but  at  this  time  pure  in  purpose. 
They  constituted  an  order  of  chivalry  which  was  to  maintain 
peace,  obey  the  Church,  and  succour  widows  and  orphans  ; 
but  to  be  bound  by  no  monastic  vows.  Of  these  two  knights, 
he  chose  one  Guelph,  the  other  Ghibelline  ;  and  under  their 
balanced  power  Guido  hoped  to  rank  the  forces  of  the  civil, 
manufacturing,  and  trading  classes,  divided  into  twelve  cor- 
porations of  higher  and  lower  arts.*  But  the  moment  this 
beautiful  arrangement  was  made,  all  parties — Guelph,  Ghibel- 
line, and  popular, — turned  unanimously  against  Count  Guido 
Novello.  The  benevolent  but  irresolute  captain  indeed  gath- 
ered his  men  into  the  square  of  the  Trinity ;  but  the  people 
barricaded  the  streets  issuing  from  it ;  and  Guido,  heartless, 
and  unwilling  for  civil  warfare,  left  the  city  with  his  Germans 
in  good  order.  And  so  ended  the  incursion  of  the  infidel 
Tedeschi  for  this  time.  The  Florentines  then  dismissed  the 
merry  brothers  whom  the  Tedeschi  had  set  over  them,  and 
besought  help  from  Orvieto  and  Charles  of  Anjou  ;  who  sent 
them  Guy  de  Montfort  and  eight  hundred  French  riders  ; 
the  blessing  of  whose  presence  thus,  at  their  own  request,  was 
granted  them  on  Easter  Day,  1267. 

On  Candlemas,  if  you  recollect,  1251,  they  open  their  gates 
to  the  Germans  ;  and  on  Easter,  1267,  to  the  French. 

260.  Remember,  then,  this  revolution,  as  coming  between 
the  battles  of  Welcome  and  Tagliacozzo  ;  and  that  it  expresses 
the  lower  revolutionary  temper  of  the  trades,  with  English 
and  French  assistance.  Its  immediate  result  was  the  appoint- 
ment of  five  hundred  and  sixty  lawyers,  woolcombers,  and 
butchers,  to  deliberate  upon  all  State  questions, — under  which 
happy  ordinances  you  will  do  well,  in  your  own  reading,  to 

*  The  seven  higher  arts  were,  Lawyers,  Physicians,  Bankers,  Mer- 
chants of  Foreign  Goods,  Wool  Mannf'actnrers,  Silk  Manufacturers, 
Furriers.  The  five  lower  arts  were,  Retail  Sellers  of  Cloth,  ButcherSj 
Shoemakers,  Masons  and  Carpenters,  Smiths. 


35S 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


leave  Florence,  that  you  may  watch,  for  a  while,  darling  little 
Pisa,  all  on  fire  for  the  young  Conradin.  She  sent  ten  vessels 
across  the  Gulf  of  Genoa  to  fetch  him  ;  received  his  cavalry 
in  her  plain  of  Sarzana  ;  and  putting  five  thousand  of  her  own 
best  sailors  into  thirty  ships,  sent  them  to  do  what  they  could, 
all  down  the  coast  of  Italy.  Down  they  went ;  startling  Gaeta 
with  an  attack  as  they  passed  ;  found  Charles  of  Anjou's 
French  and  Sicilian  fleet  at  Messina,  fought  it,  beat  it,  and 
burned  twenty-seven  of  its  ships. 

261.  Meantime,  the  Florentines  prospered  as  they  might 
with  their  religious-democratic  constitution, — until  the  death, 
in  the  odour  of  sanctity,  of  Charles  of  Anjou,  and  of  that 
Pope  Martin  IV.  whose  tomb  was  destroyed  with  Urban's  at 
Perugia.  Martin  died,  as  you  may  remember,  of  eating 
Bolsena  eels, — that  being  his  share  in  the  miracles  of  the  lake  ; 
and  you  will  do  well  to  remember  at  the  same  time,  that  the 
price  of  the  lake  eels  was  three  soldi  a  pound  ;  and  that  Nic- 
cola  of  Pisa  worked  at  Siena  for  six  soldi  a  day,  and  his  son 
Giovanni  for  four. 

262.  And  as  I  must  in  this  place  bid  farewell,  for  a  time,  to 
Niccoia  and  to  his  son,  let  me  remind  you  of  the  large  com- 
mission which  the  former  received  on  the  occasion  of  the  bat- 
tle of  Tagliacozzo,  and  its  subsequent  massacres,  when  the 
victor,  Charles,  having  to  his  own  satisfaction  exterminated 
the  seed  of  infidelity,  resolves,  both  in  thanksgiving,  and  for 
the  sake  of  the  souls  of  the  slain  knights  for  whom  some  hope 
might  yet  be  religiously  entertained,  to  found  an  abbey  on 
the  battle-field.  In  which  purpose  he  sent  for  Niccoia  to 
Naples,  and  made  him  build  on  the  field  of  Tagliacozzo,  a 
church  and  abbey  of  the  richest ;  and  caused  to  be  buried 
therein  the  infinite  number  of  the  bodies  of  those  who  died  in 
that  battle  day  ;  ordering  farther,  that,  by  many  monks, 
prayer  should  be  made  for  their  souls,  night  and  day.  In 
which  fabric  the  king  was  so  pleased  with  Niccola's  work  that 
he  rewarded  and  honoured  him  highly. 

263.  Do  you  not  begin  to  wonder  a  little  more  what  manner 
of  man  this  Nicholas  was,  who  so  obediently  throws  down  the 
towers  which  offend  the  Ghibellines,  and  so  skilfully  puts  up 


FLEUR  J)E  LYS. 


359 


the  pinnacles  which  please  the  Guelphs  ?  A  passive  power, 
seemingly,  he  ; — plastic  in  the  hands  of  any  one  who  will 
employ  him  to  build,  or  to  throw  down.  On  what  exists  of 
evidence,  demonstrably  in  these  years  here  is  the  strongest 
brain  of  Italy,  thus  for  six  shilling  a  day  doing  what  it  is 
bid. 

264.  I  take  farewell  of  him  then,  for  a  little  time,  ratifying 
to  you,  as  far  as  my  knowledge  permits,  the  words  of  my  first 
master  in  Italian  art,  Lord  Lindsay. 

"In  comparing  the  advent  of  Niccola  Pisano  to  that  of  the 
sun  at  his  rising,  I  am  conscious  of  no  exaggeration  ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  the  only  simile  by  which  I  can  hope  to  give  you 
an  adequate  impression  of  his  brilliancy  and  power  relatively 
to  the  age  in  which  he  flourished.  Those  sons  of  Erebus, 
the  American  Indians,  fresh  from  their  traditional  subterranean 
wTorld,  and  gazing  for  the  first  time  on  the  gradual  dawning 
of  the  day  in  the  East,  could  not  have  been  more  dazzled,  more 
astounded,  w7hen  the  sun  actually  appeared,  than  the  popes 
and  podestas,  friars  and  freemasons  must  have  been  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  when  from  among  the  Biduinos,  Bonannos, 
and  Antealmis  of  the  twelfth,  Niccola  emerged  in  his  glory, 
sovereign  and  supreme,  a  fount  of  light,  diffusing  warmth  and 
radiance  over  Christendom.  It  might  be  too  much  to  parallel 
him  in  actual  genius  with  Dante  and  Shakspeare  ;  they  stand 
alone  and  unapproachable,  each  on  his  distinct  pinnacle  of 
the  temple  of  Christian  song  ;  and  yet  neither  of  them  can 
boast  such  extent  and  durability  of  influence,  for  whatever  of 
highest  excellence  has  been  achieved  in  sculpture  and  paint- 
ing, not  in  Italy  only,  but  throughout  Europe,  has  been  in 
obedience  to  the  impulse  he  primarily  gave,  and  in  following 
up  the  principle  which  he  first  struck  out. 

"His  latter  days  were  spent  in  repose  at  Pisa,  but  the 
precise  year  of  his  death  is  uncertain  ;  Vasari  fixes  it  in  1275  ; 
it  could  not  have  been  much  later.  He  was  buried  in  the 
Campo  Santo.  Of  his  personal  character  we,  alas  !  know 
nothing  ;  even  Shakspeare  is  less  a  stranger  to  us.  But  that 
it  was  noble,  simple,  and  consistent,  and  free  from  the  petty 
foibles  that  too  frequently  beset  genius,  may  be  fairly  pre- 


360 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


sumed  from  the  works  lie  has  left  behind  him,  and  from  the 
eloquent  silence  of  tradition." 

265.  Of  the  circumstances  of  Niccola  Pisano's  death,  or  the 
ceremonials  practised  at  it,  we  are  thus  left  in  ignorance. 

The  more  exemplary  death  of  Charles  of  Anjou  took  place 
on  the  7th  of  January,  then,  1285  ;  leaving  the  throne  of 
Naples  to  a  boy  of  twelve  ;  and  that  of  Sicily,  to  a  Prince  of 
Spain.  Various  discord,  between  French,  Spanish,  and 
Calabrese  vices,  thenceforward  paralyzes  South  Italy,  and 
Florence  becomes  the  leading  power  of  the  Guelph  faction. 
She  had  been  inflamed  and  pacified  through  continual  par- 
oxysms of  civil  quarrel  during  the  decline  of  Charles's  power  ; 
but,  throughout,  the  influence  of  the  nobles  declines,  by 
reason  of  their  own  folly  and  insolence  ;  while  the  people, 
though  with  no  small  degree  of  folly  and  insolence  on  their 
own  side,  keep  hold  of  their  main  idea  of  justice.  In  the 
meantime,  similar  assertions  of  law  against  violence,  and  the 
nobility  of  useful  occupation,  as  compared  with  that  of  idle 
rapine,  take  place  in  Bologna,  Siena,  and  even  at  Rome,  where 
Bologna  sends  her  senator,  Branca  Leone,  (short  for  Branca- 
di-Leone,  Lion's  Grip,)  whose  inflexible  and  rightly  guarded 
reign  of  terror  to  all  evil  and  thievish  persons,  noble  or  other, 
is  one  of  the  few  passages  of  history  during  the  middle  ages, 
in  which  the  real  power  of  civic  virtue  may  be  seen  exercised 
without  warping  by  party  spirit,  or  weakness  of  vanity  or  fear. 

266.  And  at  last,  led  by  a  noble,  Giano  clella  Bella,  the 
people  of  Florence  write  and  establish  their  final  condem- 
nation of  noblesse  living  by  rapine,  those  '  Ordinamenti  clella 
Giustizia,'  which  practically  excluded  all  idle  persons  from 
government,  and  determined  that  the  priors,  or  leaders  of  the 
State,  should  be  priors,  or  leaders  of  its  arts  and  productive 
labour;  that  its  head  'podesta'or  ' power '  should  be  the 
standard-bearer  of  justice  ;  and  its  council  or  parliament  com- 
posed of  charitable  men,  or  good  men:  "boni  viri,"  in  the 
sense  from  which  the  French  formed  their  noun  'bonte.' 

The  entire  governing  body  was  thus  composed,  first,  of  the 
Podestas,  standard-bearer  of  justice  ;  then  of  his  military  cap- 
tain ;  then  of  his  lictor,  or  executor  ;  then  of  the  twelve  priors 


FLEUR  DE  LTS, 


361 


of  arts  and  liberties — properly,  deliberates  on  the  daily  oc- 
cupations, interests,  and  pleasures  of  the  body  politic  ; — and, 
finally,  of  the  parliament  of  "kind  men,"  whose  business  was 
to  determine  what  kindness  could  be  shown  to  other  states, 
by  way  of  foreign  policy. 

267.  So  perfect  a  type  of  national  government  has  only 
once  been  reached  in  the  history  of  the  human  race.  And  in 
spite  of  the  seeds  of  evil  in  its  own  impatience,  and  in  the 
gradually  increasing  worldliness  of  the  mercantile  body  ;  in 
spite  of  the  hostility  of  the  angry  soldier,  and  the  malignity 
of  the  sensual  priest,  this  government  gave  to  Europe  the 
entire  cycle  of  Christian  art,  properly  so  called,  and  every 
highest  Master  of  labour,  architectural,  scriptural,  or  pictori- 
al, practised  in  true  understanding  of  the  faith  of  Christ ; — 
Orcagna,  Giotto,  Brunelleschi,  Lionardo,  Luini  as  his  pupil, 
Lippi,  Luca,  Angelico,  Botticelli,  and  Michael  Angelo. 

268.  I  have  named  two  men,  in  this  group,  whose  names 
are  more  familiar  to  your  ears  than  any  others,  Angelico  and 
Michael  Angelo  ; — who  yet  are  absent  from  my  list  of  those 
whose  works  I  wish  you  to  study,  being  both  extravagant  in 
their  enthusiasm, — the  one  for  the  nobleness  of  the  spirit, 
and  the  other  for  that  of  the  flesh.  I  name  them  now,  be- 
cause the  gifts  each  had  were  exclusively  Florentine  ;  in 
whatever  they  have  become  to  the  mind  of  Europe  since,  they 
are  utterly  children  of  the  Val  d'Arno. 

269.  You  are  accustomed,  too  carelessly,  to  think  of  An- 
gelico as  a  child  of  the  Church,  rather  than  of  Florence.  He 
was  born  in  1387, — just  eleven  years,  that  is  to  say,  after  the 
revolt  of  Florence  against  the  Church,  and  ten  after  the  en- 
deavour of  the  Church  to  recover  her  power  by  the  massa- 
cres of  Faenza  and  Cesena.  A  French  and  English  army  of 
pillaging  riders  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  Alps, — six 
thousand  strong  ;  the  Pope  sent  for  it ;  Robert  Cardinal  of 
Geneva  brought  it  into  Italy.  The  Florentines  fortified  their 
Apennines  against  it  ;  but  it  took  winter  quarters  at  Cesena, 
where  the  Cardinal  of  Geneva  massacred  five  thousand  per- 
sons in  a  day,  and  the  children  and  sucklings  were  literally 
dashed  against  the  stones. 


362 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


270.  That  was  the  school  which  the  Christian  Church  had 
prepared  for  their  brother  Angelico.  But  Fesole,  secluding 
him  in  the  shade  of  her  mount  of  Olives,  and  Florence  re- 
vealing to  him  the  true  voice  of  his  Master,  in  the  temple  of 
St.  Mary  of  the  Flower,  taught  him  his  lesson  of  peace  on 
earth,  and  permitted  him  his  visions  of  rapture  in  heaven. 
And  when  the  massacre  of  Cesena  was  found  to  have  been  in 
vain,  and  the  Church  was  compelled  to  treat  with  the  re- 
volted cities  who  had  united  to  mourn  for  her  victories, 
Florence  sent  her  a  living  saint,  Catherine  of  Siena,  for  her 
political  Ambassador. 

271.  Of  Michael  Angelo  I  need  not  tell  you  :  of  the  others, 
wTe  will  read  the  lives,  and  think  over  them  one  by  one  ;  the 
great  fact  which  I  have  written  this  course  of  lectures  to  en- 
force upon  your  minds  is  the  dependence  of  all  the  arts  on 
the  virtue  of  the  State,  and  its  kindly  order. 

The  absolute  mind  and  state  of  Florence,  for  the  seventy 
years  of  her  glory,  from  1280  to  1350,  you  find  quite  simply 
and  literally  described  in  the  112th  Psalm,  of  which  I  read 
you  the  descriptive  verses,  in  the  words  in  which  they  sang 
it,  from  this  typically  perfect  manuscript  of  the  time  : — 

Gloria  et  divitie  in  domo  ejus,  justitia  ejus  manet  in  seculura  seculi. 
Exortum  est  in  tenebris  lumen  rectis,  misericors,  et  miserator,  et  justus. 
Jocundus  homo,  qui  miseretur,  et  commodat :  disponet  sermones  suos 
in  judicio. 

Dispersit,  dedit  pauperibus  ;  justitia  ejus  manet  in  seculum  seculi  ; 
cornu  ejus  exaltabitur  in  gloria. 

I  translate  simply,  praying  you  to  note  as  the  true  one,  the 
literal  meaning  of  every  word  : — 

Glory  and  riches  are  in  his  house.    His  justice  remains  for  ever. 
Light  is  risen  in  darkness  for  the  straightforward  people. 
He  is  merciful  in  heart,  merciful  in  deed,  and  just. 
A  jocund  man  ;  who  is  merciful,  and  lends. 
He  will  dispose  his  words  in  judgment. 

He  hath  dispersed.    He  hath  given  to  the  poor.    His  justice  remains 
for  ever.    His  horn  shall  be  exalted  in  glory. 


FLEUB  1)1C  LYS. 


363 


272.  With  vacillating,  but  steadily  prevailing  effort,  the 
Florentines  maintained  this  life  and  character  for  full  half  a 
century. 

You  will  please  now  look  at  my  staff  of  the  year  1300,* 
adding  the  names  of  Dante  and  Orcagna,  having  each  their 
separate  masterful  or  prophetic  function. 

That  is  Florence's  contribution  to  the  intellectual  work  of 
the  world  during  these  years  of  justice.  Now,  the  promise  of 
Christianity  is  given  with  lesson  from  the  fleur-de-lys  :  Seek 
ye  first  the  royalty  of  God,  and  His  justice,  "  and  all  these 
things,"  material  wealth,  "  shall  be  added  unto  you."  It  is  a 
perfectly  clear,  perfectly  literal, — never  failing  and  never  un- 
fulfilled promise.  There  is  no  instance  in  the  whole  cycle  of 
history  of  its  not  being  accomplished, — fulfilled  to  the  utter- 
most, with  full  measure,  pressed  down,  and  running  over. 

273.  Now  hear  what  Florence  was,  and  what  wealth  she 
had  got  by  her  justice.  In  the  year  1330,  before  she  fell,  she 
had  within  her  walls  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  inhabi- 
tants, of  whom  all  the  men — (laity) — between  the  ages  of  fif- 
teen and  seventy,  were  ready  at  an  instant  to  go  out  to  war, 
under  their  banners,  in  number  twenty-four  thousand.  The 
army  of  her  entire  territory  was  eighty  thousand  ;  and  within 
it  she  counted  fifteen  hundred  noble  families,  every  one 
absolutely  submissive  to  her  gonfalier  of  justice.  She  had 
within  her  walls  a  hundred  and  ten  churches,  seven  priories, 
and  thirty  hospitals  for  the  sick  and  poor  ;  of  foreign  guests, 
on  the  average,  fifteen  hundred,  constantly.  From  eight  to 
ten  thousand  children  were  taught  to  read  in  her  schools. 
The  town  was  surrounded  by  some  fifty  square  miles  of  un- 
interrupted garden,  of  olive,  corn,  vine,  lily,  and  rose. 

And  the  monetary  existence  of  England  and  France  de- 
pended upon  her  wealth.  Two  of  her  bankers  alone  had  lent 
Edward  III.  of  England  five  millions  of  money  (in  sterling 
value  of  this  present  hour). 

274.  On  the  10th  of  March,  1337,  she  was  first  accused, 
with  truth,  of  selfish  breach  of  treaties.  On  the  10th  of  April, 
ail  her  merchants  in  France  were  imprisoned  by  Philip  oi 

*  Page  83  in  my  second  lecture  on  Engraving. 


364 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


Valois  ;  and  presently  afterwards  Edward  of  England  failed, 
quite  in  your  modern  style,  for  his  five  millions.  These 
money  losses  would  have  been  nothing  to  her  ;  but  on  the 
7th  of  August,  the  captain  of  her  army,  Pietro  de'  Kossi  of 
Parma,  the  unquestioned  best  knight  in  Italy,  received  a 
chance  spear-stroke  before  Monselice,  and  died  next  day.  He 
was  the  Bayard  of  Italy  ;  and  greater  than  Bayard,  because 
living  in  a  nobler  time.  He  never  had  failed  in  any  military 
enterprise,  nor  ever  stained  success  with  cruelty  or  shame. 
Even  the  German  troops  under  him  loved  him  without  bounds. 
To  his  companions  he  gave  gifts  with  such  largesse,  that  his 
horse  and  armour  were  all  that  at  any  time  he  called  his  own. 
Beautiful  and  pure  as  Sir  Galahad,  all  that  was  brightest  in 
womanhood  watched  and  honoured  him. 

And  thus,  8th  August,  1337,  he  went  to  his  own  place. — 
To-day  I  trace  the  fall  of  Florence  no  more. 

I  will  review  the  points  I  wish  you  to  remember  ;  and 
briefly  meet,  so  far  as  I  can,  the  questions  which  I  think 
should  occur  to  you. 

275.  I  have  named  Edward  III.  as  our  heroic  type  of  Fran- 
chise. And  yet  I  have  but  a  minute  ago  spoken  of  him  as 
'  failing  •  in  quite  your  modern  manner.  I  must  correct  my 
expression  : — he  had  no  intent  of  failing  when  he  borrowed  ; 
and  did  not  spend  his  money  on  himself.  Nevertheless,  I 
gave  him  as  an  example  of  frankness ;  but  by  no  means  of 
honesty.  He  is  simply  the  boldest  and  royalest  of  Free 
Eiders  ;  the  campaign  of  Crecy  is,  throughout,  a  mere  pil- 
laging foray.  And  the  first  point  I  wish  you  to  notice  is 
the  difference  in  the  pecuniary  results  of  living  by  rob- 
bery, like  Edward  III.,  or  by  agriculture  and  just  commerce, 
like  the  town  of  Florence.  That  Florence  can  lend  five  mill- 
ions to  the  King  of  England,  and  loose  them  with  little  care, 
is  the  result  of  her  olive  gardens  and  her  honesty.  Now  hear 
the  financial  phenomena  attending  military  exploits,  and  a  life 
of  pillage. 

276.  I  give  you  them  in  this  precise  year,  1338,  in  which 
the  King  of  England  failed  to  the  Florentines. 

"  He  obtained  from  the  prelates,  barons,  and  knights  of  the 


FLEUR  BE  LYS. 


365 


shires,  one  half  of  their  wool  for  this  year — a  very  valuable 
and  extraordinary  grant.  He  seized  all  the  tin  "  (above-ground, 
you  mean  Mr.  Henry !)  "  in  Cornwall  and  Devonshire,  took 
possession  of  the  lands  of  all  priories  alien,  and  of  the  money, 
jewels,  and  valuable  effects  of  the  Lombard  merchants.  He 
demanded  certain  quantities  of  bread,  corn,  oats,  and  bacon, 
from  each  county ;  borrowed  their  silver  plate  from  many 
abbeys,  as  well  as  great  sums  of  money  both  abroad  and  at 
home  ;  and  pawned  his  crown  for  fifty  thousand  florins."  * 

He  pawns  his  queen's  jewels  next  year  ;  and  finally  sum- 
mons all  the  gentlemen  of  England  who  had  forty  pounds  a 
year,  to  come  and  receive  the  honour  of  knighthood,  or  pay  to 
be  excused  ! 

277.  H.  The  failures  of  Edward,  or  of  twenty  Edwards, 
would  have  done  Florence  no  harm,  had  she  remained  true  to 
herself,  and  to  her  neighbouring  states.  Her  merchants  only 
fail  by  their  own  increasing  avarice  ;  and  above  all  by  the 
mercantile  form  of  pillage,  usury.  The  idea  that  money  could 
beget  money,  though  more  absurd  than  alchemy,  had  yet  an 
apparently  practical  and  irresistibly  tempting  confirmation  in 
the  wealth  of  villains,  and  the  success  of  fools.  Alchemy,  in 
its  day,  led  to  pure  chemistry ;  and  calmly  yielded  to  the 
science  it  had  fostered.  But  all  wholesome  indignation 
against  usurers  was  prevented,  in  the  Christian  mind,  by 
wicked  and  cruel  religious  hatred  of  the  race  of  Christ.  In 
the  end,  Shakspeare  himself,  in  his  fierce  effort  against  the 
madness,  suffered  himself  to  miss  his  mark  by  making  his 
usurer  a  Jew  :  the  Franciscan  institution  of  the  Mount  of 
Pity  failed  before  the  lust  of  Lombardy,  and  the  logic  of 
Augsburg ;  and,  to  this  day,  the  worship  of  the  Immaculate 
Virginity  of  Money,  mother  of  the  Omnipotence  of  Money,  is 
the  Protestant  form  of  Madonna  worship. 

278.  III.  The  usurer's  fang,  and  the  debtor's  shame,  might 
both  have  been  trodden  down  under  the  feet  of  Italy,  had  her 
knights  and  her  workmen  remained  true  to  each  other.  But 
the  brotherhoods  of  Italy  were  not  of  Cain  to  Abel — but  of 
Cain  to  Cain.    Every  man's  sword  was  against  his  fellow. 

*  Henry's  "  History  of  England/'  "book  iv.,  chap,  i. 


366 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


Pisa  sank  before  Genoa  at  Meloria,  the  Italian  2Egos-Potamos ; 
Genoa  before  Venice  in  the  war  of  Chiozza,  the  Italian  siege 
of  Syracuse.  Florence  sent  her  Brunelleschi  to  divert  the 
waves  of  Serchio  against  the  walls  of  Lucca ;  Lucca  her  Cas- 
truccio,  to  hold  mock  tournaments  before  the  gates  of  van- 
quished Florence.  The  weak  modern  Italian  reviles  or  bewails 
the  acts  of  foreign  races,  as  if  his  destiny  had  depended  upon 
these ;  let  him  at  least  assume  the  pride,  and  bear  the  grief, 
of  remembering  that,  among  all  the  virgin  cities  of  his  coun- 
try, there  has  not  been  one  which  would  not  ally  herself  with 
a  stranger,  to  effect  a  sister's  ruin. 

279.  Lastly.  The  impartiality  with  which  I  have  stated  the 
acts,  so  far  as  known  to  me,  and  impulses,  so  far  as  discerni- 
ble by  me,  of  the  contending  Church  and  Empire,  cannot  but 
give  offence,  or  provoke  suspicion,  in  the  minds  of  those 
among  you  who  are  accustomed  to  hear  the  cause  of  Religion 
supported  by  eager  disciples,  or  attacked  by  confessed  ene- 
mies. My  confession  of  hostility  would  be  open,  if  I  were  an 
enemy  indeed ;  but  I  have  never  possessed  the  knowledge, 
and  have  long  ago  been  cured  of  the  pride,  which  makes  men 
fervent  in  witness  for  the  Church's  virtue,  or  insolent  in  decla- 
mation against  her  errors.  The  will  of  Heaven,  which  grants 
the  grace  and  ordains  the  diversities  of  Religion,  needs  no 
defence,  and  sustains  no  defeat,  by  the  humours  of  men  ;  and 
our  first  business  in  relation  to  it  is  to  silence  our  wishes,  and 
to  calm  our  fears.  If,  in  such  modest  and  disciplined  temper, 
you  arrange  your  increasing  knowledge  of  the  history  of  man- 
kind, you  will  have  no  final  difficulty  in  distinguishing  the 
operation  of  the  Master's  law  from  the  consequences  of  the 
disobedience  to  it  which  He  permits  ;  nor  will  you  respect 
the  law  less,  because,  accepting  only  the  obedience  of  love,  it 
neither  hastily  punishes,  nor  pompously  rewards,  with  what 
men  think  reward  or  chastisement.  Not  always  under  the 
feet  of  Korah  the  earth  is  rent ;  not  always  at  the  call  of  Elijah 
the  clouds  gather  ;  but  the  guarding  mountains  for  ever  stand 
round  about  Jerusalem  ;  and  the  rain,  miraculous  evermore, 
makes  green  the  fields  for  the  evil  and  the  good. 

280.  And  if  you  will  fix  your  minds  only  on  the  conditions 


FLEUR  BE  LY8. 


367 


of  human  life  which  the  Giver  of  it  demands,  "He  hath  shown 
thee,  oh  man,  what  is  good,  and  what  doth  thy  Lord  require 
of  thee,  but  to  do  justice,  and  to  ]ove  mercy,  and  to  walk 
humbly  with  thy  God,"  you  will  find  that  such  obedience  is 
always  acknowledged  by  temporal  blessing.  If,  turning  from 
the  manifest  miseries  of  cruel  ambition,  and  manifest  wander- 
ings of  insolent  belief,  you  summon  to  your  thoughts  rather 
the  state  of  unrecorded  multitudes,  who  laboured  in  silence, 
and  adored  in  humility,  widely  as  the  snows  of  Christendom 
brought  memory  of  the  Birth  of  Christ,  or  her  spring  sun- 
shine, of  His  Resurrection,  you  may  know  that  the  promise 
of  the  Bethlehem  angels  has  been  literally  fulfilled  ;  and  will 
pray  that  your  English  fields,  joyfully  as  the  banks  of  Arno, 
may  still  dedicate  their  pure  lilies  to  St.  Mary  of  the  Flower, 


APPENDIX. 


(NOTES  ON  THE  PLATES  ILLUSTRATING  THIS  VOLUME.) 

In  the  delivery  of  the  preceding  Lectures,  some  account 
was  given  of  the  theologic  design  of  the  sculptures  by  Gio- 
vanni Pisano  at  Orvieto,  which  I  intended  to  have  printed 
separately,  and  in  more  complete  form,  in  this  Appendix. 
But  my  strength  does  not  now  admit  of  my  fulfilling  the  half 
of  my  intentions,  and  I  find  myself,  at  present,  tired,  and  so 
dead  in  feeling,  that  I  have  no  quickness  in  interpretation,  or 
skill  in  description  of  emotional  work.  I  must  content  my- 
self, therefore,  for  the  time,  with  a  short  statement  of  the 
points  w7hich  I  wish  the  reader  to  observe  in  the  Plates,  and 
which  were  left  unnoticed  in  the  text. 

The  frontispiece  is  the  best  copy  I  can  get,  in  permanent 
materials,  of  a  photograph  of  the  course  of  the  Arno,  through 
Pisa,  before  the  old  banks  were  destroyed.  Two  arches  of 
the  Ponte-a-Mare  which  was  carried  away  in  the  inundation 
of  1870,  are  seen  in  the  distance  ;  the  church  of  La  Spina,  in 
its  original  position  overhanging  the  river ;  and  the  buttressed 
and  rugged  walls  of  the  mediaeval  shore.  Never  more,  any  of 
these,  to  be  seen  in  reality,  by  living  eyes. 

Plate  I. — A  small  portion  of  a  photograph  of  Nicolo 
Pisano's  Adoration  of  the  Magi,  on  the  pulpit  of  the  Pisan 
Baptistery.  The  intensely  Greek  character  of  the  heads,  and 
the  severely  impetuous  chiselling  (learned  from  Late  Roman 
rapid  work),  which  drives  the  lines  of  the  drapery  nearly 
straight,  may  be  seen  better  in  a  fragment  of  this  limited 
measure  than  in  the  crowded  massing  of  the  entire  subject. 
But  it  may  be  observed  also  that  there  is  both  a  thoughtful- 


370 


YAL  D'A  RNO. 


ness  and  a  tenderness  in  the  features,  whether  of  the  Virgin 
or  the  attendant  angel,  which  already  indicate  an  aim  beyond 
that  of  Greek  art. 

Plate  II. — The  Pulpit  of  the  Baptistery  (of  which  the  pre- 
ceding plate  represents  a  portion).  I  have  only  given  this 
general  view  for  convenience  of  reference.  Beautiful  photo- 
graphs of  the  subject  on  a  large  scale  are  easily  attainablo. 

Plate  III. — The  Fountain  of  Perugia.  Executed  from  a 
sketch  by  Mr.  Arthur  Severn.  The  perspective  of  the  steps 
is  not  quite  true  ;  we  both  tried  to  get  it  right,  but  found 
that  it  would  be  a  day  or  two's  work,  to  little  purpose, — and 
so  let  them  go  at  hazard.  The  inlaid  pattern  behind  is  part 
of  the  older  wall  of  the  cathedral ;  the  late  door  is  of  course 
inserted. 

Plate  IV.,  Letter  E. — From  Norman  Bible  in  the  British 
Museum  ;  showing  the  moral  temper  which  regulated  common 
ornamentation  in  the  twelfth  century. 

Plate  V. — Door  of  the  Baptistery  at  Pisa.  The  reader 
must  note  that,  although  these  plates  are  necessarily,  in  fine- 
ness of  detail,  inferior  to  the  photographs  from  which  they 
are  taken,  they  have  the  inestimable  advantage  of  permanence, 
and  will  not  fade  away  into  spectres  when  the  book  is  old.  I 
am  greatly  puzzled  by  the  richness  of  the  current  ornamenta- 
tion on  the  main  pillars,  as  opposed  to  the  general  severity  of 
design.  I  never  can  understand  how  the  men  who  indulged 
in  this  flowing  luxury  of  foliage  were  so  stern  in  their  masonry 
and  figure-draperies. 

Plate  VI. — Part  of  the  lintel  of  the  door  represented  on 
Plate  V.,  enlarged.  I  intended,  in  the  Lecture  on  Marble 
Couchant,  to  have  insisted,  at  some  length,  on  the  decoration 
of  the  lintel  and  side-posts,  as  one  of  the  most  important 
phases  of  mystic  ecclesiastical  sculpture.  But  I  find  the  ma- 
terials furnished  by  Lucca,  Pisa,  and  Florence,  for  such  an 
essay  are  far  too  rich  to  be  examined  cursorily  ;  the  treatment 
even  of  this  single  lintel  could  scarcely  be  enough  explained 
in  the  close  of  the  Lecture,  I  must  dwell  on  some  points  of 
it  now. 

Look  back  to  Section  175  in  "Aratra  Pentelici,"  giving 


APPENDIX. 


371 


statement  of  the  four  kinds  of  relief  in  sculpture.  The  up- 
permost of  these  plinths  is  of  the  kind  I  have  called  'round 
relief '  ;  you  might  strike  it  out  on  a  coin.  The  lower  is 
'  foliate  relief '  ;  it  looks  almost  as  if  the  figures  had  been 
cut  out  ol  one  layer  of  marble,  and  laid  against  another  be- 
hind it. 

The  uppermost,  at  the  distance  of  my  diagram,  or  in  nature 
itself,  would  scarcely  be  distinguished  at  a  careless  glance 
from  an  egg-and-arrow  moulding.  You  could  not  have  a 
more  simple  or  forcible  illustration  of  my  statement  in  the 
first  chapter  of  "Aratra,"  that  the  essential  business  of  sculpt- 
ure is  to  produce  a  series  of  agreeable  bosses  or  rounded 
surfaces  ;  to  which,  if  possible,  some  meaning  may  afterwards 
be  attached.  In  the  present  instance,  every  egg  becomes  an 
angel,  or  evangelist,  and  every  arrow  a  lily,  or  a  whig.*  The 
whole  is  in  the  most  exquisitely  finished  Byzantine  style. 

I  am  not  sure  of  being  right  in  my  interpretation  of  the 
meaning  of  these  figures  ;  but  I  think  there  can  be  little  ques- 
tion about  it.  There  are  eleven  altogether ;  the  three  cen- 
tral, Christ  with  His  mother  and  St.  Joseph  ;  then,  two  evan- 
gelists, with  two  alternate  angels,  on  each  side.  Each  of  these 
angels  carries  a  rod,  with  a  fleur-de-lys  termination  ;  their 
wings  decorate  the  intermediate  ridges  (formed,  in  a  pure 
Greek  moulding,  by  the  arrows)  ;  and,  behind  the  heads  of 
all  the  figures,  there  is  now  a  circular  recess ;  once  filled,  I 
doubt  not,  by  a  plate  of  gold.  The  Christ,  and  the  Evange- 
lists, ail  carry  books,  of  which  each  has  a  mosaic,  or  intaglio 
ornament,  in  the  shape  of  a  cross.  I  could  not  show  you  a 
more  severe  or  perfectly  representative  piece  of  architectural 
sculpture. 

The  heads  of  the  eleven  figures  are  as  simply  decorative  as 
the  ball  flowers  are  in  our  English  Gothic  tracery  ;  the  slight 
irregularity  produced  by  different  gesture  and  character  giv- 
ing precisely  the  sort  of  change  which  a  good  designer  wishes 
to  see  in  the  parts  of  a  consecutive  ornament. 

*  In  the  contemporary  south  door  of  the  Duomo  of  Genoa,  the  Greek 
moulding  is  used  without  any  such  transformation. 


372 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


The  moulding  closes  at  each  extremity  With  a  palm-tree, 
correspondent  in  execution  with  those  on  coins  of  Syracuse  ; 
for  the  rest,  the  interest  of  it  consists  only  in  these  slight 
variations  of  attitude  by  which  the  figures  express  wonder  or 
concern  at  some  event  going  on  in  their  presence.  They  are 
looking  down  ;  and  I  do  not  doubt,  are  intended  to  be  the 
heavenly  witnesses  of  the  story  engraved  on  the  stone  below, 
— The  Life  and  Death  of  the  Baptist. 

The  lower  stone  on  which  this  is  related,  is  a  model  of  skill 
in  Fiction,  properly  so  called.  In  Fictile  art,  in  Fictile  his- 
tory, it  is  equally  exemplary.  '  Feigning  '  or  c  affecting '  in 
the  most  exquisite  way  by  fastening  intensely  on  the  princi- 
pal points. 

Ask  yourselves  what  are  the  principal  points  to  be  insisted 
on,  in  the  story  of  the  Baptist. 

He  came,  "  preaching  the  Baptism  of  Bepentance  for  the 
remission  of  sins."    That  is  his  Advice,  or  Order-preaching. 

And  he  came,  "  to  bear  witness  of  the  Light."  "  Behold  the 
Lamb  of  God,  which  taketh  away  the  sins  of  the  world." 
That  is  his  declaration,  or  revelation- preaching. 

And  the  end  of  his  own  life  is  in  the  practice  of  this  preach- 
ing— if  you  will  think  of  it — under  curious  difficulties  in  both 
kinds.  Difficulties  in  putting  awray  sin — difficulties  in  obtain- 
ing sight.  The  first  half  of  the  stone  begins  with  the  apoca- 
lyptic preaching.  Christ,  represented  as  in  youth,  is  set 
under  two  trees,  in  the  wilderness.  St.  John  is  scarcely  at 
first  seen  ;  he  is  only  the  guide,  scarcely  the  teacher,  of  the 
crowd  of  peoples,  nations,  and  languages,  whom  he  leads, 
pointing  them  to  the  Christ.  Without  doubt,  all  these  figures 
have  separate  meaning.  I  am  too  ignorant  to  interpret  it ; 
but  observe  generally,  they  are  the  thoughtful  and  wise  of  the 
earth,  not  its  ruffians  or  rogues.  This  is  not,  by  any  means, 
a  general  amnesty  to  blackguards,  and  an  apocalypse  to 
brutes,  which  St.  John  is  preaching.  These  are  quite  the 
best  people  he  can  find  to  call,  or  advise.  You  see  many  of 
them  carry  rolls  of  paper  in  their  hands,  as  he  does  himself. 
In  comparison  with  the  books  of  the  upper  cornice,  thesQ 
have  special  meaning,  as  throughout  Byzantine  design. 


APPENDIX. 


373 


"  Adverte  quod  patriarchs  et  prophetse  pinguntur  cum  ro-  • 
tulis  in  manibus  ;  quidam  vero  apostoli  cum  libris,  et  quidam 
cum  ro  tulis.  Nempe  quia  ante  Christi  adventum  fides  figura- 
tive ostendebatur,  et  quoad  multa,  in  se  implicita  erat.  Ad 
quod  ostendendum  patriarchs  et  prophetse  pinguntur  cum  ro- 
tulis,  per  quos  quasi  qusedam  imperfecta  cognitio  design atur  ; 
quia  vero  apostoli  a  Christo  perfecte  edocti  sunt,  ideo  libris, 
per  quos  designatur  perfecta  cognitio,  uti  possunt." 

William  Durandus,  quoted  by  Didron,  p.  305. 

Plate  VII. — Next  to  this  subject  of  the  preaching  comes  the 
Baptism  :  and  then,  the  circumstances  of  St.  John's  death. 
First,  his  declaration  to  Herod,  "It  is  not  lawful  for  thee  to 
have  thy  brothers  wife  :  "  on  which  he  is  seized  and  carried 
to  prison  : — next,  Herod's  feast, — the  consultation  between 
daughter  and  mother,  "  What  shall  I  ask  ?  " — the  martyrdom, 
and  burial  by  the  disciples.  The  notable  point  in  the  treat- 
ment of  all  these  subjects  is  the  quiet  and  mystic  Byzantine 
dwelling  on  thought  rather  than  action.  In  a  northern  sculpt- 
ure of  this  subject,  the  daughter  of  Herodias  would  have 
been  assuredly  dancing  ;  and  most  probably,  casting  a  somer- 
sault. With  the  Byzantine,  the  debate  in  her  mind  is  the 
only  subject  of  interest,  and  he  carves  above,  the  evil  angels, 
laying  their  hands  on  the  heads,  first  of  Herod  and  Herodias, 
and  then  of  Herodias  and  her  daughter. 

Plate  VIII. — The  issuing  of  commandment  not  to  eat  of 
the  tree  of  knowledge.    (Orvieto  Cathedral.) 

This,  with  Plates  X.  and  XII. ,  will  give  a  sufficiently  clear 
conception  to  any  reader  who  has  a  knowledge  of  sculpture, 
of  the  principles  of  Giovanni  Pisano's  design.  I  have  thought 
it  well  worth  while  to  publish  opposite  two  of  them,  facsimiles 
of  the  engravings  which  profess  to  represent  them  in  Gruner's 
monograph  *  of  the  Orvieto  sculptures  ;  for  these  outlines 
will,  once  for  all,  and  better  than  any  words,  show  my  pupils 
what  is  the  real  virue  of  mediaeval  work, — the  power  which 
we  mediae valists  rejoice  in  it  for.    Precisely  the  qualities  which 

*  The  drawings  are  by  some  Italian  draughtsman,  whose  name  It  is  no 
business  of  mine  to  notice. 


374 


YAL  D'ARNO. 


'  are  not  in  the  modern  drawings,  are  the  essential  virtues  of 
the  early  sculpture.  If  you  like  the  Gruner  outlines  best, 
you  need  not  trouble  yourself  to  go  to  Orvieto,  or  anywhere 
else  in  Italy.  Sculpture,  such  as  those  outlines  represent, 
can  be  supplied  to  you  by  the  acre,  to  order,  in  any  modern 
academician's  atelier.  But  if  you  like  the  strange,  rude, 
quaint,  Gothic  realities  (for  these  photographs  are,  up  to  a 
certain  point,  a  vision  of  the  reality)  best ;  then,  don't  study 
mediaeval  art  under  the  direction  of  modern  illustrators.  Look 
at  it — for  however  short  a  time,  where  you  can  find  it — veri- 
table and  untouched,  however  mouldered  or  shattered.  And 
abhor,  as  you  would  the  mimicry  of  your  best  friend's  man- 
ners by  a  fool,  all  restorations  and  improving  copies.  For 
remember,  none  but  fools  think  they  can  restore — none,  but 
worse-  fools,  that  they  can  improve. 

Examine  these  outlines,  then,  with  extreme  care,  and  point 
by  point.  The  things  which  they  have  refused  or  lost,  are  the 
things  you  have  to  love,  in  Giovanni  Pisano. 

I  will  merely  begin  the  task  of  examination,  to  show  you 
how  to  set  about  it.  Take  the  head  of  the  commanding  Christ. 
Although  inclined  forward  from  the  shoulders  in  the  advanc- 
ing motion  of  the  whole  body,  the  head  itself  is  not  stooped  ; 
but  held  entirely  upright,  the  line  of  forehead  sloping  back- 
wards. The  command  is  given  in  calm  authority  ;  not  in 
mean  anxiety.  But  this  was  not  expressive  enough  for  the 
copyist, — "  How  much  better  I  can  show  what  is  meant !  " 
thinks  he.  So  he  puts  the  line  of  forehead  and  nose  upright  ; 
projects  the  brow  out  of  its  straight  line  ;  and  the  expression 
then  becomes, — "  Now,  be  very  careful,  and  mind  what  I  say." 
Perhaps  you  like  this  '  improved  '  action  better  ?  Be  it  so  ; 
only,  it  is  not  Giovanni  Pisano's  design  ;  but  the  modern 
Italian's. 

Next,  take  the  head  of  Eve.  It  is  much  missed  in  the  pho- 
tograph— nearly  all  the  finest  lines  lost — but  enough  is  got  to 
show  Giovanni's  mind. 

It  appears,  he  liked  long-headed  people,  with  sharp  chins 
and  straight  noses.  It  might  be  very  wrong  of  him  ;  but  that 
was  his  taste.    So  much  so,  indeed,  that  Adam  and  Eve  have. 


APPENDIX. 


375 


both  of  them,  heads  not  much  shorter  than  one^ixth  of  their 
entire  height. 

Your  modern  Academy  pupil,  of  course,  cannot  tolerate 
this  monstrosity.  He  indulgently  corrects  Giovanni,  and 
Adam  and  Eve  have  entirely  orthodox  one-eighth  heads,  by 
rule  of  schools. 

But  how  of  Eve's  sharp-cut  nose  and  pointed  chin,  thin  lips, 
and  look  of  quiet  but  rather  surprised  attention — not  specially 
reverent,  but  looking  keenly  out  from  under  her  eyelids,  like  a 
careful  servant  receiving  an  order  ? 

Well — those  are  all  Giovanni's  own  notions  ; — not  the  least 
classical,  nor  scientific,  nor  even  like  a  pretty,  sentimental 
modern  woman.  Like  a  Florentine  woman — in  Giovanni's 
time — it  may  be  ;  at  all  events,  very  certainly,  what  Giovanni 
thought  proper  to  carve. 

Now  examine  your  modern  edition.  An  entirely  proper 
Greco-Roman  academy  plaster  bust,  with  a  proper  nose,  and 
proper  mouth,  and  a  round  chin,  and  an  expression  of  the 
most  solemn  reverence  ;  always,  of  course,  of  a  classical  de- 
scription.   Very  fine,  perhaps.    But  not  Giovanni. 

After  Eve's  head,  let  us  look  at  her  feet.  Giovanni  has  his 
own  positive  notions  about  those  also.  Thin  and  bony,  to  ex- 
cess, the  right,  undercut  all  along,  so  that  the  profile  looks  as 
thin  as  the  mere  elongated  line  on  an  Etruscan  vase  ;  and  the 
right  showing  the  five  toes  all  well  separate,  nearly  straight, 
and  the  larger  ones  almost  as  long  as  fingers  !  the  shin  bone 
above  carried  up  in  as  severe  and  sharp  a  curve  as  the  edge  of 
a  sword. 

Now  examine  the  modern  copy.  Beautiful  little  fleshy, 
Venus- de'-Medici  feet  and  toes — no  undercutting  to  the  right 
foot, — the  left  having  the  great-toe  properly  laid  over  the  sec- 
ond, according  to  the  ordinances  of  schools  and  shoes,  and  a 
well-developed  academic  and  operatic  calf  and  leg.  Again 
charming,  of  course.  But  only  according  to  Mr.  Gibson  or 
Mr.  Power — not  according  to  Giovanni. 

Farther,  and  finally,  note  the  delight  with  which  Giovanni 
has  dwelt,  though  without  exaggeration,  on  the  muscles  of  the 
breast  and  ribs  in  the  Adam  ;  while  he  has  subdued  all  away 


376 


VAL  DWRNO. 


into  virginal  severity  in  Eve.  And  then  note,  and  with  concku 
sive  admiration,  how  in  the  exact  and  only  place  where  the 
poor  modern  fool's  anatomical  knowledge  should  have  been 
shown,  the  wretch  loses  his  hold  of  it !  How  he  has  entire- 
ly missed  and  effaced  the  grand  Greek  pectoral  muscles  of 
Giovanni's  Adam,  but  has  studiously  added  what  mean  flesh- 
liness  he  could  to  the  Eve  ;  and  marked  with  black  spots  the 
nipple  and  navel,  where  Giovanni  left  only  the  severe  marble 
in  pure  light. 

These  instances  are  enough  to  enable  you  to  detect  the  in- 
solent changes  in  the  design  of  Giovanni  made  by  the  modern 
Academy-student  in  so  far  as  they  relate  to  form  absolute.  I 
must  farther,  for  a  few  moments,  request  your  attention  to 
the  alterations  made  in  the  light  and  shade. 

You  may  perhaps  remember  some  of  the  passages.  They 
occur  frequently,  both  in  my  inaugural  lectures,  and  in 
"  Aratra  Pentelici,"  in  which  I  have  pointed  out  the  essential 
connection  between  the  schools  of  sculpture  and  those  of  chi- 
aroscuro. I  have  always  spoken  of  the  Greek,  or  essential- 
ly sculpture-loving  schools,  as  chiaroscurist ;  always  of  the 
Gothic,  or  colour-loving  schools,  as  non-chiaroscurist.  And 
in  one  place,  (I  have  not  my  books  here,  and  cannot  refer  to 
it,)  I  have  even  defined  sculpture  as  light-and-shade  drawing 
with  the  chisel.  Therefore,  the  next  point  you  have  to  look 
to,  after  the  absolute  characters  of  form,  is  the  mode  in  which 
the  sculptor  has  placed  his  shadows,  both  to  express  these, 
and  to  force  the  eye  to  the  points  of  his  composition  which  he 
wants  looked  at.  You  cannot  possibly  see  a  more  instructive 
piece  of  work,  in  these  respects,  than  Giovanni's  design  of  the 
Nativity,  Plate  X.  So  far  as  I  yet  know  Christian  art,  this  is 
the  central  type  of  the  treatment  of  the  subject ;  it  has  all  the 
intensity  and  passion  of  the  earliest  schools,  together  with  a 
grace  of  repose  which  even  in  Ghiberti's  beautiful  Nativity, 
founded  upon  it,  has  scarcely  been  increased,  but  rather  lost 
in  languor.  The  motive  of  the  design  is  the  frequent  one 
among  all  the  early  masters  ;  the  Madonna  lifts  the  covering 
from  the  cradle  to  show  the  Child  to  one  of  the  servants,  who 
starts  forward  adoring.    All  the  light  and  shade  is  disposed 


Plate  XII. — The  Annunciation  and  Visitation. 


APPENDIX. 


377 


to  fix  the  eye  on  these  main  actions.  First,  one  intense 
deeply-cut  mass  of  shadow,  under  the  pointed  arch,  to  throw 
out  the  head  and  lifted  hand  of  the  Virgin.  A  vulgar  sculptor 
would  have  cut  all  black  behind  the  head  ;  Giovanni  begins 
with  full  shadow  ;  then  subdues  it  with  drapery  absolutely 
quiet  in  fall ;  then  lays  his  fullest  possible  light  on  the  head, 
the  hand,  and  the  edge  of  the  lifted  veil. 

He  has  undercut  his  Madonna's  profile,  being  his  main  aim, 
too  delicately  for  time  to  spare  ;  happily  the  deep-cut  brow  is 
left,  and  the  exquisitely  refined  line  above,  of  the  veil  and 
hair.  The  rest  of  the  work  is  uninjured,  and  the  sharpest 
edges  of  light  are  still  secure.  You  may  note  how  the  pas- 
sionate action  of  the  servant  is  given  by  the  deep  shadows 
under  and  above  her  arm,  relieving  its  curves  in  all  their 
length,  and  by  the  recess  of  shade  under  the  cheek  and  chin, 
which  lifts  the  face. 

Now  take  your  modern  student's  copy,  and  look  how  he 
has  placed  his  lights  and  shades.  You  see,  they  go  as  nearly 
as  possible  exactly  where  Giovanni's  don't.  First,  pure  white 
under  this  Gothic  arch,  where  Giovanni  has  put  his  fullest 
dark.  Secondly,  just  where  Giovanni  has  used  his  whole  art  of 
chiselling,  to  soften  his  stone  away,  and  show  the  wreaths  of 
the  Madonna's  hair  lifting  her  veil  behind,  the  accursed  mod- 
ern blockhead  carves  his  shadow  straight  down,  because  he 
thinks  that  will  be  .more  in  the  style  of  Michael  Angelo.  Then 
he  takes  the  shadows  away  from  behind  the  profile,  and  from 
under  the  chin,  and  from  under  the  arm,  and  puts  in  two  grand 
square  blocks  of  dark  at  the  ends  of  the  cradle,  that  you  may- 
be safe  to  look  at  that,  instead  of  the  Child.  Next,  he  takes 
it  all  away  from  under  the  servant's  arms,  and  lays  it  all  be- 
hind above  the  calf  of  her  leg.  Then,  not  having  wit  enough 
to  notice  Giovanni's  undulating  surface  beneath  the  drapery 
of  the  bed  on  the  left,  he  limits  it  with  a  hard  parallel-sided 
bar  of  shade,  and  insists  on  the  vertical  fold  under  the  Ma- 
donna's arm,  which  Giovanni  has  purposely  cut  flat  that  it 
may  not  interfere  with  the  arm  above  ;  finally,  the  modern 
animal  has  missed  the  only  pieces  of  womanly  form  which 
Giovanni  admitted,  the  rounded  right  arm  and  softly  revealed 


378 


VAL  D'ARNO. 


breast ;  and  absolutely  removed,  as  if  it  were  no  part  of  the 
composition,  the  horizontal  incision  at  the  base  of  all — out  of 
which  the  first  folds  of  the  drapery  rise. 

I  cannot  give  you  any  better  example,  than  this  modern 
Academy-work,  of  the  total  ignorance  of  the  very  first  mean- 
ing of  the  word  '  Sculpture  •  into  which  the  popular  schools  of 
existing  art  are  plunged.  I  will  not  insist,  now,  on  the  useless- 
ness,  or  worse,  of  their  endeavours  to  represent  the  older  art, 
and  of  the  necessary  futility  of  their  judgment  of  it.  The  con- 
clusions to  which  I  wish  to  lead  you  on  these  points  will  be 
the  subject  of  future  lectures,  being  of  too  great  importance 
for  examination  here.  But  you  cannot  spend  your  time  in 
more  profitable  study  than  by  examining  and  comparing, 
touch  for  touch,  the  treatment  of  light  and  shadow  in  the 
figures  of  the  Christ  %and  sequent  angels,  in  Plates  VIII.  and 
IX.,  as  we  have  partly  examined  those  of  the  subject  before 
us  ;  and  in  thus  assuring  yourself  of  the  uselessness  of  trust- 
ing to  any  ordinary  modern  copyists,  for  anything  more  than 
the  rudest  chart  or  map — and  even  that  inaccurately  surveyed 
— of  ancient  design. 

The  last  plate  given  in  this  volume  contains  the  two  love- 
ly subjects  of  the  Annunciation  and  Visitation,  which,  being 
higher  from  the  ground,  are  better  preserved  than  the  groups 
represented  in  the  other  plates.  They  will  be  found  to  justify, 
in  subtlety  of  chiselling,  the  title  I  gave  to  Giovanni,  of  the 
Canova  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

I  am  obliged  to  leave  without  notice,  at  present,  the  branch 
of  ivy,  given  in  illustration  of  the  term  *  marble  rampant/  at 
the  base  of  Plate  VIII.  The  foliage  of  Orvieto  can  only  be 
rightly  described  in  connection  with  the  great  scheme  of  leaf- 
ornamentation  which  ascended  from  the  ivy  of  the  Homeric 
period  in  the  sculptures  of  Cyprus,  to  the  roses  of  Botticelli, 
and  laurels  of  Bellini  and  Titian. 


THE 

PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND 

LECTURES  GIVEN  IN  OXFORD 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


LECTURE  I. 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 

Bertha  io  Osburga. 

the  tih^rt  review  of  the  present  state  of  English  Art,  given 
>ou  last  year,  I  left  necessarily  many  points  untouched,  and 
others  unexplained.  The  seventh  lecture,  which  I  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  read  aloud,  furnished  you  with  some  of 
the  corrective  statements  of  which,  whether  spoken  or  not,  it 
was  extremely  desirable  that  you  should  estimate  the  balanc- 
ing weight.  These  I  propose  in  the  present  course  farther  to 
illustrate,  and  to  arrive  with  you  at,  I  hope,  a  just — you  would 
not  wish  it  to  be  a  nattering-  -estimate  of  the  conditions  of 
our  English  artistic  life,  past  a*id  present,  in  order  that  with 
due  allowance  for  them  we  may  determine,  with  some  security, 
what  those  of  us  who  have  faculty  ought  to  do,  and  those 
who  have  sensibility,  to  admire. 

2.  In  thus  rightly  doing  and  feeling,  you  will  find  summed 
a  wider  duty,  and  granted  a  greater  power,  than  the  moral 
philosophy  at  this  moment  current  with  you  has  ever  con- 
ceived ;  and  a  prospect  opened  to  you  besides,  of  such  a  Fut- 
ure for  England  as  you  may  both  hopefully  and  proudly 
labour  for  with  your  hands,  and  those  of  you  who  are  spared 
to  the  ordinary  term  of  human  life,  even  see  with  your  eyes, 
when  all  this  tumult  of  vain  avarice  and  idle  pleasure,  into 
which  you  have  been  plunged  at  birth,  shall  have  passed  into 
its  appointed  perdition. 


382 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


3.  I  wish  that  you  would  read  for  introduction  to  the  lect- 
ures I  have  this  year  arranged  for  you,  that  on  the  Future  of 
England,  which  I  gave  to  the  cadets  at  Woolwich  in  the  first 
year  of  my  Professorship  here,  1869  ;  and  which  is  now  placed 
as  the  main  conclusion  of  the  "  Crown  of  Wild  Olive " :  and 
with  it,  very  attentively,  the  close  of  my  inaugural  lecture 
given  here  ;  for  the  matter,  no  less  than  the  tenor  of  which, 
I  was  reproved  by  all  my  friends,  as  irrelevant  and  ill-judged  ; 
— which,  nevertheless,  is  of  all  the  pieces  of  teaching  I  have 
ever  given  from  this  chair,  the  most  pregnant  and  essential  to 
whatever  studies,  whether  of  Art  or  Science,  you  may  pursue, 
in  this  place  or  elsewhere,  during  your  lives. 

The  opening  words  of  that  passage  I  will  take  leave  to  read 
to  you  again, — for  they  must  still  be  the  ground  of  whatever 
help  I  can  give  you,  worth  your  acceptance. 

"  There  is  a  destiny  now  possible  to  us — the  highest  ever 
set  before  a  nation  to  be  accepted  or  refused.  We  are  still 
undegenerate  in  race :  a  race  mingled  of  the  best  northern 
blood.  We  are  not  yet  dissolute  in  temper,  but  still  have  the 
firmness  to  govern,  and  the  grace  to  obey.  We  have  been 
taught  a  religion  of  pure  mercy,  wThich  we  must  either  now 
finally  betray,  or  learn  to  defend  by  fulfilling.  And  we  are 
rich  in  an  inheritance  of  honour,  bequeathed  to  us  through  a 
thousand  years  of  noble  history,  which  it  should  be  our  daily 
thirst  to  increase  with  splendid  avarice  ;  so  that  Englishmen, 
if  it  be  a  sin  to  covet  honour,  should  be  the  most  offending 
souls  alive.  Within  the  last  few  years  we  have  had  the  laws 
of  natural  science  opened  to  us  with  a  rapidity  which  has 
been  blinding  by  its  brightness  ;  and  means  of  transit  and 
communication  given  to  us,  which  have  made  but  one  king- 
dom of  the  habitable  globe. 

"  One  kingdom  ; — but  who  is  to  be  its  king  ?  Is  there  to 
be  no  king  in  it,  think  you,  and  every  man  to  do  that  which 
is  right  in  his  own  eyes  ?  Or  only  kings  of  terror,  and  the 
obscene  empires  of  Mammon  and  Belial  ?  Or  will  you,  youths 
of  England,  make  your  country  again  a  royal  throne  of  kings  ; 
a  sceptred  isle  ;  for  all  the  world  a  source  of  light,  a  centre  of 
peace  ;  mistress  of  Learning  and  of  the  Arts  ; — faithful  guar- 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 


383 


dian  of  great  memories  in  the  midst  of  irreverent  and  ephem- 
eral visions — faithful  servant  of  time-tried  principles,  under 
temptation  from  fond  experiments  and  licentious  desires  ;  and 
amidst  the  cruel  and  clamorous  jealousies  of  the  nations, 
worshipped  in  her  strange  valour,  of  goodwill  towards  men  ?  " 

The  fifteen  years  that  have  j>assed  since  I  spoke  these  words 
must,  I  think,  have  convinced  some  of  my  immediate  hearers 
that  the  need  for  such  an  appeal  was  more  pressing  than  they 
then  imagined  ; — while  they  have  also  more  and  more  con- 
vinced me  myself  that  the  ground  I  took  for  it  was  secure, 
and  that  the  youths  and  girls  now  entering  on  the  duties  of 
active  life  are  able  to  accept  and  fulfil  the  hope  I  then  held 
out  to  them. 

In  which  assurance  I  ask  them  to-day  to  begin  the  examina- 
tion with  me,  very  earnestly,  of  the  question  laid  before  you 
in  that  seventh  of  my  last  year's  lectures,  whether  London,  as 
it  is  now,  be  indeed  the  natural,  and  therefore  the  heaven- 
appointed  outgrowth  of  the  inhabitation,  these  1800  years,  of 
the  valley  of  the  Thames  by  a  progressively  instructed  and 
disciplined  people  ;  or  if  not,  in  what  measure  and  manner 
the  aspect  and  spirit  of  the  great  city  may  be  possibly  altered 
by  your  acts  and  thoughts. 

'  In  my  introduction  to  the  Economist  of  Xenophon  I  said 
that  every  fairly  educated  European  boy  or  girl  ought  to  learn 
the  history  of  five  cities, — Athens,  Eome,  Venice,  Florence, 
and  London  ;  that  of  London  including,  or  at  least  compelling 
in  parallel  study,  some  knowledge  also  of  the  history  of  Paris , 
A  few  words  are  enough  to  explain  the  reasons  for  this 
choice.  The  history  of  Athens,  rightly  told,  includes  all  that 
need  be  known  of  Greek  religion  and  arts  ;  that  of  Eome,  the 
victory  of  Christianity  over  Paganism  ;  those  of  Venice  and 
Florence  sum  the  essential  facts  respecting  the  Christian  arts 
of  Painting,  Sculpture,  and  Music  ;  and  that  of  London,  in 
her  sisterhood  with  Paris,  the  development  of  Christian  Chiv- 
alry and  Philosophy,  with  their  exponent  art  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture. 

Without  the  presumption  of  forming  a  distinct  design,  I  yet 
hoped  at  the  time  when  this  division  of  study  was  suggested, 


384 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


with  the  help  of  my  pupils,  to  give  the  outlines  of  their  sev- 
eral histories  during  my  work  in  Oxford.  Variously  disap- 
pointed and  arrested,  alike  by  difficulties  of  investigation  and 
failure  of  strength,  I  may  yet  hope  to  lay  down  for  you,  begin- 
ning with  your  own  metropolis,  some  of  the  lines  of  thought 
in  following  out  which  such  a  task  might  be  most  effectively 
accomplished. 

You  observe  that  I  speak  of  architecture  as  the  chief  expo- 
nent of  the  feelings  both  of  the  French  and  English  races. 
Together  with  it,  however,  most  important  evidence  of  char- 
acter is  given  by  the  illumination  of  manuscripts,  and  by 
some  forms  of  jewellery  and  metallurgy :  and  my  purpose  in 
this  course  of  lectures  is  to  illustrate  by  all  these  arts  the 
phases  of  national  character  which  it  is  impossible  that  histo- 
rians should  estimate,  or  even  observe,  with  accuracy,  unless 
they  are  cognizant  of  excellence  in  the  aforesaid  modes  of 
structural  and  ornamental  craftsmanship. 

In  one  respect,  as  indicated  by  the  title  chosen  for  this 
course,  I  hove  varied  the  treatment  of  their  subject  from  that 
adopted  in  all  my  former  books.  Hitherto,  I  have  always  en- 
deavoured to  illustrate  the  personal  temper  and  skill  of  the 
artist ;  holding  the  wishes  or  taste  of  his  spectators  at  small 
account,  and  saying  of  Turner  you  ought  to  like  him,  and  of 
Salvator,  you  ought  not,  etc.,  etc.,  without  in  the  least  consid- 
ering what  the  genius  or  instinct  of  the  spectator  might  other- 
wise demand,  or  approve.  But  in  the  now  attempted  sketch 
of  Christian  history,  I  have  approached  every  question  from 
the  people's  side,  and  examined  the  nature,  not  of  the  special 
faculties  by  which  the  work  was  produced,  but  of  the  general 
instinct  by  which  it  was  asked  for,  and  enjoyed.  Therefore  I 
thought  the  proper  heading  for  these  papers  should  represent 
them  as  descriptive  of  the  Pleasures  of  England,  rather  than 
of  its  Apte, 

And  of  these  pleasures,  necessarily,  the  leading  one  was 
that  of  Learning,  in  the  sense  of  receiving  instruction  ; — a 
pleasure  totally  separate  from  that  of  finding  out  tilings  for 
yourself, — and  an  extremely  sweet  and  sacred  pleasure,  when 
you  know  how  to  seek  it,  and  receive. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 


385 


On  which  I  am  the  more  disposed,  and  even  compelled, 
here  to  insist,  because  your  modern  ideas  of  Development 
imply  that  you  must  all  turn  out  what  you  are  to  be,  and  find 
out  what  you  are  to  know,  for  yourselves,  by  the  inevitable 
operation  of  your  anterior  affinities  and  inner  consciences  : — 
whereas  the  old  idea  of  education  was  that  the  baby  material 
of  you,  however  accidentally  or  inevitably  born,  was  at 
least  to  be  by  external  force,  and  ancestral  knowledge,  bred  ; 
and  treated  by  its  Fathers  and  Tutors  as  a  plastic  vase,  to  be 
shaped  or  mannered  as  they  chose,  not  as  it  chose,  and  filled, 
when  its  form  was  well  finished  and  baked,  with  sweetness  of 
sound  doctrine,  as  with  Hybla  honey,  or  Arabian  spikenard. 

Without  debating  how  far  these  two  modes  of  acquiring 
knowledge — finding  out,  and  being  told—may  severally  be 
good,  and  in  perfect  instruction  combined,  I  have  to  point  out 
to  you  that,  broadly,  Athens,  Rome,  and  Florence  are  self- 
taught,  and  internally  developed  ;  while  all  the  Gothic  races, 
without  any  exception,  but  especially  those  of  London  and 
Paris,  are  afterwards  taught  by  these  ;  and  had,  therefore, 
when  they  chose  to  accept  it,  the  delight  of  being  instructed, 
without  trouble  or  doubt,  as  fast  as  they  could  read  or  imi- 
tate ;  and  brought  forward  to  the  point  where  their  own 
northern  instincts  might  wholesomely  superimpose  or  graft 
some  national  ideas  upon  these  sound  instructions.  Read 
over  what  I  said  on  this  subject  in  the  third  of  my  lectures 
last  year,  and  simplify  that  already  brief  statement  further, 
by  fastening  in  your  mind  Carlyle's  general  symbol  of  the 
best  attainments  of  northern  religious  sculpture. — "three 
whale-cubs  combined  by  boiling,"  and  reflecting  that  the  men- 
tal history  of  all  northern  European  art  is  the  modification  of 
that  graceful  type,  under  the  orders  of  the  Athena  of  Homer 
and  Phidias. 

And  this  being  quite  indisputably  the  broad  fact  of  the  mat- 
ter, I  greatly  marvel  that  your  historians  never,  so  far  as  I  have 
read,  think  of  proposing  to  you  the  question — what  you  might 
have  made  of  yourselves  without  the  help  of  Homer  and  Phid- 
ias :  what  sort  of  beings  the  Saxon  and  the  Celt,  the  Frank  and 
the  Dane,  might  have  been  by  this  time,  untouched  by  the 


386 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


spear  of  Pallas,  unruled  by  the  rod  of  Agricola,  and  sincerely 
the  native  growth,  pure  of  root,  and  ungrafted  in  fruit  of  the 
clay  of  Isis,  rock  of  Dovref eldt,  and  sands  of  Elbe  ?  Think  of 
it,  and  think  chiefly  what  form  the  ideas,  and  images,  of  your 
natural  religion  might  probably  have  taken,  if  no  Roman  mis- 
sionary had  ever  passed  the  Alps  in  charity,  and  no  English 
king  in  pilgrimage. 

I  have  been  of  late  indebted  more  than  I  can  express  to  the 
friend  who  has  honoured  me  by  the  dedication  of  his  recently 
published  lectures  on  (  Older  England  ; '  and  whose  eager  en- 
thusiasm and  far  collected  learning  have  enabled  me  for  the 
first  time  to  assign  their  just  meaning  and  value  to  the  ritual 
and  imagery  of  Saxon  devotion.  But  while  every  page  of  Mr. 
Hodgett's  book,  and,  I  may  gratefully  say  also,  every  sentence 
of  his  teaching,  has  increased  and  justified  the  respect  in  which 
I  have  always  been  by  my  own  feeling  disposed  to  hold  the 
mythologies  founded  on  the  love  and  knowledge  of  the  natural 
world,  I  have  also  been  led  by  them  to  conceive,  far  more 
forcibly  than  hitherto,  the  power  which  the  story  of  Christian- 
ity possessed,  first  heard  through  the  wreaths  of  that  cloudy 
superstition,  in  the  substitution,  for  its  vaporescent  allegory, 
of  a  positive  and  literal  account  of  a  real  Creation,  and  an  in- 
stantly present,  omnipresent,  and  compassionate  God. 

Observe,  there  is  no  question  whatever  in  examining  this 
influence,  how  far  Christianity  itself  is  true,  or  the  transcen- 
dental doctrines  of  it  intelligible.  Those  who  brought  you  the 
story  of  it  believed  it  with  all  their  souls  to  be  true, — and  the 
effect  of  it  on  the  hearts  of  your  ancestors  was  that  of  an  unques- 
tionable, infinitely  lucid  message  straight  from  God,  doing 
away  with  all  difficulties,  grief,  and  fears  for  those  who  will- 
ingly received  it,  nor  by  any,  except  wilfully  and  obstinately 
vile  persons,  to  be,  by  any  possibility,  denied  or  refused. 

And  it  was  precisely,  observe,  the  vivacity  and  joy  with 
which  the  main  fact  of  Christ's  life  was  accepted  which  gave 
the  force  and  wrath  to  the  controversies  instantly  arising 
about  its  nature. 

Those  controversies  vexed  and  shook,  but  never  under- 
mined, the  faith  they  strove  to  purify,  and  the  miraculous 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING.  387 


presence,  errorless  precept,  and  loving  promises  of  their  Lord 
were  alike  undoubted,  alike  rejoiced  in,  by  every  nation  that 
heard  the  word  of  Apostles.  The  Pelagian's  assertion  that 
immortality  could  be  won  by  man's  will,  and  the  Arian's  that 
Christ  possessed  no  more  than  man's  nature,  never  for  an  in- 
stant— or  in  any  country — hindered  the  advance  of  the  moral 
law  and  intellectual  hope  of  Christianity.  Far  the  contrary  ; 
the  British  heresy  concerning  Free  Will,  though  it  brought 
bishop  after  bishop  into  England  to  extinguish  it,  remained 
an  extremely  healthy  and  active  element  in  the  British  mind 
down  to  the  days  of  John  Bunyan  and  the  guide  Great  Heart, 
and  the  calmly  Christian  justice  and  simple  human  virtue  of 
Theodoric  were  the  very  roots  and  first  burgeons  of  the  re- 
generation of  Italy.*  But  of  the  degrees  in  which  it  was  pos- 
sible for  any  barbarous  nation  to  receive  during  the  first  five 
centuries,  either  the  spiritual  power  of  Christianity  itself,  or 
the  instruction  in  classic  art  and  science  which  accompanied 
it,  you  cannot  rightly  judge,  without  taking  the  pains,  and  they 
will  not,  I  think,  be  irksome,  of  noticing  carefully,  and  fixing 
permanently  in  your  minds,  the  separating  characteristics  of 
the  greater  races,  both  in  those  who  learned  and  those  who 
taught. 

Of  the  Huns  and  Vandals,  we  need  not  speak.  They  are 
merely  forms  of  Punishment  and  Destruction.  Put  them  out 
of  your  minds  altogether,  and  remember  only  the  names  of 
the  immortal  nations,  which  abide  on  their  native  rocks,  and 
plough  their  unconquered  plains,  at  this  hour. 

Briefly,  in  the  north, — Briton,  Norman,  Frank,  Saxon,  Ostro- 
goth, Lombard ;  briefly,  in  the  south, — Tuscan,  Roman,  Greek, 
Syrian,  Egyptian,  Arabian. 

Now  of  these  races,  the  British  (I avoid  the  word  Celtic, 

*  Gibbon,  in  his  87tn  chapter,  makes  Ulphilas  also  an  Arian,  but 
might  have  forborne,  with  grace,  his  own  definition  of  orthodoxy: — > 
and  you  are  to  observe  generally  that  at  this  time  the  teachers  who  ad- 
mitted the  inferiority  of  Christ  to  the  Father  as  touching  his  Manhood, 
were  often  counted  among  Arians,  but  quite  falsely.  Christ's  own 
words,  4 'My  Father  is  greater  than  I,"  end  that  controversy  at  once. 
Arianism  consists  not  in  asserting  the  subjection  of  the  Son  to  the 
Father,  but  in  denying  the  subjected  Divinity. 


388 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


because  yon  would  expect  me  to  say  Keltic ;  and  I  don  t 
mean  to,  lest  you  should  be  wanting  me  next  to  call  the  pa- 
troness of  music  St.  Kekilia),  the  British,  including  Breton, 
Cornish,  Welsh,  Irish,  Scot,  and  Pict,  are,  I  believe,  of  all  the 
northern  races,  the  one  which  has  deepest  love  of  external 
nature  ; — and  the  richest  inherent  gift  of  pure  music  and 
song,  as  such  ;  separated  from  the  intellectual  gift  which 
raises  song  into  poetry.  They  are  naturally  also  religious, 
and  for  some  centuries  after  their  own  conversion  are  one  of 
the  chief  evangelizing  powers  in  Christendom.  But  they  are 
neither  apprehensive  nor  receptive  ; — they  cannot  under- 
stand the  classic  races,  and  learn  scarcely  anything  from 
them  ;  perhaps  better  so,  if  the  classic  races  had  been  more 
careful  to  understand  them. 

Next,  the  Norman  is  scarcely  more  apprehensive  than  the 
Celt,  but  he  is  more  constructive,  and  uses  to  good  advan- 
tage what  he  learns  from  the  Frank.  His  main  characteristic 
is  an  energy,  which  never  exhausts  itself  in  vain  anger,  de- 
sire, or  sorrow,  but  abides  and  rules,  like  a  living  rock  : — 
where  he  wanders,  he  flows  like  lava,  and  congeals  like  gran- 
ite. 

Next,  I  take  in  this  first  sketch  the  Saxon  and  Frank  to- 
gether, both  pre-eminently  apprehensive,  both  docile  exceed- 
ingly, imaginative  in  the  highest,  but  in  life  active  more  than 
pensive,  eager  in  desire,  swift  of  invention,  keenly  sensitive 
to  animal  beauty,  but  with  difficulty  rational,  and  rarely,  for 
the  future,  wise.  Under  the  conclusive  name  of  Ostrogoth, 
you  may  class  whatever  tribes  are  native  to  Central  Germany, 
and  develope  themselves,  as  time  goes  on,  into  that  power  of 
the  German  Caesars  which  still  asserts  itself  as  an  empire 
against  the  license  and  insolence  of  modern  republicanism, — - 
of  which  races,  though  this  general  name,  no  description  can 
be  given  in  rapid  terms. 

And  lastly,  the  Lombards,  who,  at  the  time  we  have  to  deal 
with,  were  sternly  indocile,  gloomily  imaginative, — of  almost 
Norman  energy,  and  differing  from  all  the  other  western  na- 
tions chiefly  in  this  notable  particular,  that  while  the  Celt  is 
capable  of  bright  wit  and  happy  play,  and  the  Norman,  Saxon, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 


389 


and  Frank  all  alike  delight  in  caricature,  the  Lombards,  like 
the  Arabians,  never  jest. 

These,  briefly,  are  the  six  barbaric  nations  who  are  to  be 
taught :  and  of  whose  native  arts  and  faculties,  before  they 
receive  any  tutorship  from  the  south,  I  find  no  well-sifted  ac- 
count in  any  history : — but  thus  much  of  them,  collecting 
your  own  thoughts  and  knowledge,  you  may  easily  discern — 
they  were  all,  with  the  exception  of  the  Scots,  practical  work- 
ers and  builders  in  wood  ;  and  those  of  them  who  had  coasts, 
first  rate  sea-boat  builders,  with  fine  mathematical  instincts 
and  practice  in  that  kind  far  developed,* necessarily  good  sail- 
weaving,  and  sound  fur-stitching,  with  stout  iron-work  of  nail 
and  rivet ;  rich  copper  and  some  silver  work  in  decoration — 
the  Celts  developing  peculiar  gifts  in  linear  design,  but  wholly 
incapable  of  drawing  animals  or  figures  ; — the  Saxons  and 
Franks  having  enough  capacity  in  that  kind,  but  no  thought 
of  attempting  it  ;  the  Normans  and  Lombards  still  farther 
remote  from  any  such  skill.  More  and  more,  it  seems  to  me 
wonderful  that  under  your  British  block-temple,  grimly  ex- 
tant on  its  pastoral  plain,  or  beside  the  first  crosses  engraved 
on  the  rock  at  Whithorn — you  English  and  Scots  do  not 
oftener  consider  what  you  might  or  could  have  come  to,  left 
to  yourselves. 

Next,  let  us  form  the  list  of  your  tutor  nations,  in  whom  it 
generally  pleases  you  to  look  at  nothing  but  the  corruptions. 
If  we  could  get  into  the  habit  of  thinking  more  of  our  own 
corruptions  and  more  of  their  virtues,  we  should  have  a  better 
chance  of  learning  the  true  laws  alike  of  art  and  destiny. 

But,  the  safest  way  of  all,  is  to  assure  ourselves  that  true 
knowledge  of  any  thing  or  any  creature  is  only  of  the  good  of 
it ;  that  its  nature  and  life  are  in  that,  and  that  what  is  dis- 
eased,— that  is  to  say,  unnatural  and  mortal, — you  must  cut 
away  from  it  in  contemplation,  as  you  would  in  surgery. 

Of  the  six  tutor  nations,  two,  the  Tuscan  and  Arab,  have 
no  effect  on  early  Christian  England.  But  the  Roman,  Greek, 
Syrian,  and  Egyptian  act  together  from  the  earliest  times  ; 
you  are  to  study  the  influence  of  Rome  upon  England  in  Agric* 
ola,  Constantius,  St.  Benedict,  and  St.  Gregory ;  of  Greece 


390 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


upon  England  in  the  artists  of  Byzantium  and  Ravenna  ;  ol 
Syria  and  Egypt  upon  England  in  St.  Jerome,  St.  Augustine, 
St.  Chrysostom,  and  St.  ilthanase. 

St  Jerome,  in  central  Bethlehem  ;  St.  Augustine,  Cartha- 
ginian by  birth,  in  truth  a  converted  Tyrian  ;  Athanase,  Egyp- 
tian, symmetric  and  fixed  as  an  Egyptian  aisle  ;  Chrysostom, 
golden  mouth  of  all ;  these  are,  indeed,  every  one  teachers  of 
all  the  western  world,  but  St.  Augustine  especially  of  lay,  as 
distinguished  from  monastic,  Christianity  to  the  Franks,  and 
finally  to  us.  His  rule,  expanded  into  the  treatise  of  the  City 
of  God,  is  taken  for  guide  of  life  and  policy  by  Charlemagne, 
and  becomes  certainly  the  fountain  of  Evangelical  Christianity, 
distinctively  so  called,  (and  broadly  the  lay  Christianity  of 
Europe,  since,  in  the  purest  form  of  it,  that  is  to  say,  the 
most  merciful,  charitable,  variously  applicable,  kindly  wise.) 
The  greatest  type  of  it,  as  far  as  I  know,  St.  Martin  of  Tours, 
whose  character  is  sketched,  I  think  in  the  main  rightly,  in 
the  Bible  of  Amiens  ;  and  you  may  bind  together  your 
thoughts  of  its  course  by  remembering  that  Alcuin.  born  at 
York,  dies  in  the  Abbey  of  St.  Martin,  at  Tours  ;  that  as  St. 
Augustine  was  in  his  writings  Charlemagne's  Evangelist  in 
faith,  Alcuin  was,  in  living  presence,  his  master  in  rhetoric, 
logic,  and  astronomy,  with  the  other  physical  sciences. 

A  hundred  years  later  than  St.  Augustine,  comes  the  rule 
of  St.  Benedict — the  Monastic  rule,  virtually,  of  European 
Christianity,  ever  since — and  theologically  the  Law  of  Works, 
as  distinguished  from  the  Law  of  Faith.  St.  Augustine  and 
all  the  disciples  of  St.  Augustine  tell  Christians  what  they 
should  feel  and  think :  St.  Benedict  and  all  the  disciples  of 
St.  Benedict  tell  Christians  what  they  should  say  and  do. 

In  the  briefest,  but  also  the  perfectest  distinction,  the  dis- 
ciples of  St.  Augustine  are  those  who  open  the  door  to  Christ 
— "If  any  man  hear  my  voice  ";  but  the  Benedictines  those 
to  whom  Christ  opens  the  door — "  To  him  that  knocketh  it 
shall  be  opened." 

Now,  note  broadly  the  course  and  action  of  this  rule,  as  it 
combines  with  the  older  one.  St.  Augustine's,  accepted 
heartily  by  Clovis,  and,  with  various  degrees  of  understand- 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING, 


391 


ing,  by  the  kings  and  queens  of  the  Merovingian  dynasty, 
makes  seemingly  little  difference  in  their  conduct,  so  that 
their  profession  of  it  remains  a  scandal  to  Christianity  to  this 
day  ;  and  yet  it  lives,  in  the  true  hearts  among  them,  down 
from  St.  Clotilde  to  her  great  grand-daughter  Bertha,  who  in 
becoming  Queen  of  Kent,  builds  under  its  chalk  downs  her 
own  little  chapel  to  St.  Martin,  and  is  the  first  effectively  and 
permanently  useful  missionary  to  the  Saxons,  the  beginner  of 
English  Erudition, — the  first  laid  corner  stone  of  beautiful 
English  character. 

I  think  henceforward  you  will  find  the  memorandum  of 
dates  which  I  have  here  set  down  for  my  own  guidance  more 
simply  useful  than  those  confused  by  record  of  unimportant 
persons  and  inconsequent  events,  which  form  the  indices  of 
common  history. 

From  the  year  of  the  Saxon  invasion  449,  there  are  exactly 
400  years  to  the  birth  of  Alfred,  849.  Yon  have  no  difficulty 
in  remembering  those  cardinal  years.  Then,  you  have  Four 
great  men  and  great  events  to  remember,  at  the  close  of  the 
fifth  century.  Clovis,  and  the  founding  of  the  Frank  King- 
dom ;  Theodoric  and  the  founding  of  the  Gothic  Kingdom  ; 
Justinian  and  the  founding  of  Civil  law  ;  St.  Benedict  and  the 
founding  of  Religious  law. 

Of  Justinian,  and  his  work,  I  am  not  able  myself  to  form 
any  opinion — and  it  is,  I  think,  unnecessary  for  students  of 
history  to  form  any,  until  they  are  able  to  estimate  clearly  the 
benefits,  and  mischief,  of  the  civil  law  of  Europe  in  its  present 
state.  But  to  Clovis,  Theodoric,  and  St.  Benedict,  without 
any  question,  we  owe  more  than  any  English  historian  has  yet 
ascribed, — and  they  are  easily  held  in  mind  together,  for 
Clovis  ascended  the  Frank  throne  in  the  year  of  St.  Benedict's 
birth,  481.  Theodoric  fought  the  battle  of  Verona,  and 
founded  the  Ostrogothic  Kingdom  in  Italy  twelve  years  later, 
in  493,  and  thereupon  married  the  sister  of  Clovis.  That 
marriage  is  always  passed  in  a  casual  sentence,  as  if  a  merely 
political  one,  and  while  page  after  page  is  spent  in  following 
the  alternations  of  furious  crime  and  fatal  chance,  in  the  con- 
tests between  Fredegonde  and  Brunehaut,  no  historian  ever 


392 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


considers  whether  the  great  Ostrogoth  who  wore  in  the  battle 
of  Verona  the  dress  which  his  mother  had  woven  for  him,  wTas 
likely  to  have  chosen  a  wife  without  Jove  ! — or  how  far  the 
perfectness,  justice,  and  temperate  wisdom  of  every  ordinance 
of  his  reign  was  owing  to  the  sympathy  and  counsel  of  his 
Frankish  queen. 

You  have  to  recollect,  then,  thus  far,  only  three  cardinal 
dates  : — 

449.  Saxon  invasion. 

481.  Clovis  reigns  and  St.  Benedict  is  born. 
493.  Theodoric  conquers  at  Verona. 

Then,  roughly,  a  hundred  years  later,  in  590,  Ethelbert,  the 
fifth  from  Hengist,  and  Bertha,  the  third  from  Clotiide,  are 
king  and  queen  of  Kent.  I  cannot  find  the  date  of  their  mar- 
riage, but  the  date,  590,  which  you  must  recollect  for  cardinal, 
is  that  of  Gregory's  accession  to  the  pontificate,  and  I  believe 
Bertha  was  then  in  middle  life,  having  persevered  in  her  relig- 
ion firmly,  but  inoffensively,  and  made  herself  beloved  by  her 
husband  and  people.  She,  in  England,  Theodoiinda  in  Lorn- 
barely,  and  St.  Gregory  in  Rome  : — in  their  hands,  virtually 
lay  the  destiny  of  Europe. 

Then  the  period  from  Bertha  to  Osburga,  590  to  849 — say 
250  years — is  passed  by  the  Saxon  people  in  the  daily  more 
reverent  learning  of  the  Christian  faith,  and  daily  more  peace- 
ful and  skilful  practice  of  the  humane  arts  and  duties  wrhich 
it  invented  and  inculcated. 

The  statement  given  by  Sir  Edward  Creasy  of  the  result  of 
these  250  years  of  lesson  is,  with  one  correction,  the  most 
simple  and  just  that  I  can  find. 

"  A  few  years  before  the  close  of  the  sixth  century,  the 
country  was  little  more  than  a  wide  battle-field,  where  gallant 
but  rude  wTarriors  fought  with  each  other,  or  against  the 
neighbouring  Welsh  or  Scots  ;  unheeding  and  unheeded  by 
the  rest  of  Europe,  or,  if  they  attracted  casual  attention,  re- 
garded with  dread  and  disgust  as  the  fiercest  of  barbarians 
and  the  most  untameable  of  pagans.  In  the  eighth  century, 
England  was  looked  up  to  with  admiration  and  gratitude,  as 
superior  to  all  the  other  countries  of  Western  Europe  in  piety 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING.  393 

and  learning,  and  as  the  land  whence  the  most  zealous  and 
successful  saints  and  teachers  came  forth  to  convert  and  en- 
lighten the  still  barbarous  regions  of  the  continent." 

This  statement  is  broadly  true  ;  yet  the  correction  it  needs 
is  a  very  important  one.  England,— under  her  first  Alfred  of 
Northumberland,  and  under  Ina  of  Wessex,  is  indeed  during 
these  centuries  the  most  learned,  thoughtful,  and  progressive 
of  European  states.  But  she  is  not  a  missionary  power.  The 
missionaries  are  always  to  her,  not  from  her : — for  the  very 
reason  that  she  is  learning  so  eagerly,  she  does  not  take  to 
preaching.  Ina  founds  his  Saxon  school  at  Rome  not  to 
teach  Eome,  nor  convert  the  Pope,  but  to  drink  at  the  source 
of  knowledge,  and  to  receive  laws  from  direct  and  unques- 
tioned authority.  The  missionary  power  was  wholly  Scotch 
and  Irish,  and  that  power  was  wholly  one  of  zeal  and  faith, 
not  of  learning.  I  will  ask  you,  in  the  course  of  my  next 
lecture,  to  regard  it  attentively  ;  to-day,  I  must  rapidly  draw 
to  the  conclusions  I  would  leave  with  you. 

It  is  more  and  more  wonderful  to  me  as  I  think  of  it,  that 
no  effect  whatever  was  produced  on  the  Saxon,  nor  on  any 
other  healthy  race  of  the  North,  either  by  the  luxury  of  Rome, 
or  by  her  art,  whether  constructive  or  imitative.  The  Saxon 
builds  no  aqueducts — designs  no  roads,  rounds  no  theatres  in 
imitation  of  her, — envies  none  of  her  vile  pleasures, — ad- 
mires, so  far  as  I  can  judge,  none  of  her  far-carried  realistic 
art.  I  suppose  that  it  needs  intelligence  of  a  more  advanced 
kind  to  see  the  qualities  of  complete  sculpture :  and  that  we 
may  think  of  the  Northern  intellect  as  still  like  that  of  a 
child,  who  cares  to  picture  its  own  thoughts  in  its  own  way, 
but  does  not  care  for  the  thoughts  of  older  people,  or  attempt 
to  copy  what  it  feels  too  difficult.  This  much  at  least  is  cer- 
tain, that  for  one  cause  or  another,  everything  that  now  at 
Paris  or  London  our  painters  most  care  for  and  try  to  realize, 
of  ancient  Rome,  was  utterly  innocuous  and  unattractive  to 
the  Saxon :  while  his  mind  was  frankly  open  to  the  direct 
teaching  of  Greece  and  to  the  methods  of  bright  decoration 
employed  in  the  Byzantine  Empire  :  for  these  alone  seemed 
to  his  fancy  suggestive  of  the  glories  of  the  brighter  work] 


391 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


promised  by  Christianity.  Jewellery,  vessels  of  gold  and 
silver,  beautifully  written  books,  and  music,  are  the  gifts  of 
St.  Gregory  alike  to  the  Saxon  and  Lombard  ;  all  these  beauti- 
ful things  being  used,  not  for  the  pleasure  of  the  present  life, 
but  as  the  symbols  of  another  ;  while  the  drawings  in  Saxon 
manuscripts,  in  which,  better  than  in  any  other  remains  of 
their  life,  we  can  read  the  people's  character,  are  rapid  en- 
deavours to  express  for  themselves,  and  convey  to  others, 
some  likeness  of  the  realities  of  sacred  event  in  which  they 
had  been  instructed.  They  differ  from  every  archaic  school 
of  former  design  in  this  evident  correspondence  with  an 
imagined  reality.  All  previous  archaic  art  whatsoever  is  sym- 
bolic and  decorative — not  realistic.  The  contest  of  Herakles 
with  the  Hydra  on  a  Greek  vase  is  a  mere  sign  that  such  a 
contest  took  place,  not  a  picture  of  it,  and  in  drawing  that 
sign  the  potter  is  always  thinking  of  the  effect  of  the  engraved 
lines  on  the  curves  of  his  pot,  and  taking  care  to  keep  out  of 
the  way  of  the  handle  ; — but  a  Saxon  monk  would  scratch  his 
idea  of  the  Fall  of  the  angels  or  the  Temptation  of  Christ  over 
a  whole  page  of  his  manuscript  in  variously  explanatory  scenes, 
evidently  full  of  inexpressible  vision,  and  eager  to  explain  and 
illustrate  all  that  he  felt  or  believed. 

Of  the  progress  and  arrest  of  these  gifts,  I  shall  have  to 
speak  in  my  next  address ;  but  I  must  regretfully  conclude 
to-day  with  some  brief  warning  against  the  complacency 
which  might  lead  you  to  regard  them  as  either  at  that  time 
entirely  original  in  the  Saxon  race,  or  at  the  present  day  as 
signally  characteristic  of  it.  That  form  of  complacency  is  ex- 
hibited in  its  most  amiable,  but,  therefore,  most  deceptive 
guise,  in  the  passage  with  which  the  late  Dean  of  Westminster 
concluded  his  lecture  at  Canterbury  in  April,  1854,  on  the 
subject  of  the  landing  of  Augustine.  I  will  not  spoil  the  em- 
phasis of  the  passage  by  comment  as  I  read,  but  must  take 
leave  afterwards  to  intimate  some  grounds  for  abatement  in 
the  fervour  of  its  self-gratulatory  ecstasy. 

"  Let  any  one  sit  on  the  hill  of  the  little  church  of  St.  Mar- 
tin, and  look  on  the  view  which  is  there  spread  before  his 
eyes.    Immediately  below  are  the  towers  of  the  great  abbey 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 


395 


of  St.  Augustine,  where  Christian  learning  and  civilization 
first  struck  root  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  ;  and  within  which 
now,  after  a  lapse  of  many  centuries,  a  new  institution  has 
arisen,  intended  to  carry  far  and  wide,  to  countries  of  which 
Gregory  and  Augustine  never  heard,  the  blessings  which  they 
gave  to  us.  Carry  your  view  on — and  there  rises  high  above 
all  the  magnificent  pile  of  our  cathedral,  equal  in  splendour 
and  state  to  any,  the  noblest  temple  or  church  that  Augustine 
could  have  seen  in  ancient  Borne,  rising  on  the  very  ground 
which  derives  its  consecration  from  him.  And  still  more  than 
the  grandeur  of  the  outward  buildings  that  rose  from  the 
little  church  of  Augustine  and  the  little  palace  of  Ethelbert 
have  been  the  institutions  of  all  kinds  of  which  these  were 
the  earliest  cradle.  From  Canterbury,  the  first  English 
Christian  city, — from  Kent,  the  first  English  Christian  king- 
dom— has  by  degrees  arisen  the  whole  constitution  of  Church 
and  State  in  England  which  now  binds  together  the  whole 
British  Empire.  And  from  the  Christianity  here  established 
in  England  has  flowed,  by  direct  consequence,  first  the  Chris- 
tianity of  Germany ;  then,  after  a  long  interval,  of  North 
America  ;  and  lastly,  we  may  trust,  in  time,  of  all  India  and 
all  Australasia.  The  view  from  St.  Martin's  Church  is  indeed 
one  of  the  most  inspiriting  that  can  be  found  in  the  world ; 
there  is  none  to  which  I  would  more  willingly  take  any  one 
who  doubted  whether  a  small  beginning  could  lead  to  a  great 
and  lasting  good  ; — none  which  carries  us  more  vividly  back 
into  the  past,  or  more  hopefully  forward  into  the  future." 

To  this  Gregorian  canticle  in  praise  of  the  British  constitu- 
tion, I  grieve,  but  am  compelled,  to  take  these  following  his- 
torical objections.  The  first  missionary  to  Germany  was  Ul- 
philas,  and  what  she  owes  to  these  islands  she  owes  to  Iona, 
not  to  Thanet.  Our  missionary  offices  to  America  as  to  Africa, 
consist  I  believe  principally  in  the  stealing  of  land,  and  the 
extermination  of  its  proprietors  by  intoxication.  Our  rule  in 
India  has  introduced  there,  Paisley  instead  of  Cashmere  shawls  : 
in  Australasia  our  Christian  aid  supplies,  I  suppose,  the  pious 
farmer  with  convict  labour.  And  although,  when  the  Dean 
wrote  the  above  passage,  Si  Augustine's  and  the  cathedraj 


396 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAN1/. 


were — I  take  it  on  trust  from  his  description — the  principal 
objects  in  the  prospect  from  St.  Martin's  Hill,  I  believe  even 
the  cheerf  ullest  of  my  audience  would  not  now  think  the  scene 
one  of  the  most  inspiriting  in  the  world.  For  recent  prog- 
ress has  entirely  accommodated  the  architecture  of  the  scene 
to  the  convenience  of  the  missionary  workers  above  enumer- 
ated ;  to  the  peculiar  necessities  of  the  civilization  they  have 
achieved.  For  the  sake  of  which  the  cathedral,  the  monastery, 
the  temple,  and  the  tomb,  of  Bertha,  contract  themselves  in 
distant  or  despised  subservience  under  the  colossal  walls  of 
the  county  gaol. 


LECTURE  IT. 

THE    PLEASURES     OF  FAITH. 

Alfred  to  the  Confessor. 

I  was  forced  in  my  last  lecture  to  pass  by  altogether, 
and  to-day  can  only  with  momentary  definition  notice,  the 
part  taken  by  Scottish  missionaries  in  the  Christianizing  of 
England  and  Burgundy.  I  would  pray  you  therefore,  in  order 
to  fill  the  gap  which  I  think  it  better  to  leave  distinctly,  than 
close  confusedly,  to  read  the  histories  of  St.  Patrick,  St.  Co- 
lumba,  and  St.  Columban,  as  they  are  given  you  by  Montalem- 
bert  in  his  6  Moines  d'Occident.'  You  will  find  in  his  pages  all 
the  essential  facts  that  are  known,  encircled  with  a  nimbus  of 
enthusiastic  sympathy  which  I  hope  you  will  like  better  to  see 
them  through,  than  distorted  by  blackening  fog  of  contempt- 
uous rationalism.  But  although  I  ask  you  thus  to  make  your- 
selves aware  of  the  greatness  of  my  omission,  I  must  also  cer- 
tify you  that  it  does  not  break  the  unity  of  our  own  immediate 
subject.  The  influence  of  Celtic  passion  and  art  both  on 
Northumbria  and  the  Continent,  beneficent  in  all  respects 
while  it  lasted,  expired  without  any  permanent  share  in  the 
work  or  emotion  of  the  Saxon  and  Frank.  The  book  of  Kells, 
and  the  bell  of  St.  Patrick,  represent  sufficiently  the  peculiar 
character  of  Celtic  design  ;  and  long  since,  in  the  first  lecture 
of  the  '  Two  Paths/  I  explained  both  the  modes  of  skill,  and 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


397 


points  of  weakness,  which  rendered  such  design  unprogressive, 
Perfect  in  its  peculiar  manner,  and  exulting  in  the  faultless 
practice  of  a  narrow  skill,  it  remained  century  after  century 
incapable  alike  of  inner  growth,  or  foreign  instruction  ;  inim- 
itable, yet  incorrigible  ;  marvellous,  yet  despicable,  to  its 
death.  Despicable,  I  mean,  only  in  the  limitation  of  its 
capacity,  not  in  its  quality  or  nature.  If  you  make  a  Christian 
of  a  lamb  or  a  squirrel — what  can  you  expect  of  the  lamb  but 
jumping — what  of  the  squirrel,  but  pretty  spirals,  traced  with 
his  tail  ?  He  won't  steal  your  nuts  any  more,  and  he'll  say  his 
prayers  like  this — *  ;  but  you  cannot  make  a  Beatrice's  griffin, 
and  emblem  of  all  the  Catholic  Church,  out  of  him. 

You  will  have  observed,  also,  that  the  plan  of  these  lectures 
does  not  include  any  reference  to  the  Roman  Period  in  Eng- 
land ;  of  which  you  will  find  all  I  think  necessary  to  say,  in  the 
part  called  Valle  Cruris  of  £Our  Fathers  have  told  us.'  But  I 
must  here  warn  you,  with  reference  to  it,  of  one  gravely  false 
prejudice  of  Montalembert.  He  is  entirely  blind  to  the  con- 
ditions of  Roman  virtue,  which  existed  in  the  midst  of  the 
corruptions  of  the  Empire,  forming  the  characters  of  such 
Emperors  as  Pertinax,  Carus,  Probus,  the  second  Claudius, 
Aurelian,  and  our  own  Constantius ;  and  he  denies,  with  abu- 
sive violence,  the  power  for  good,  of  Roman  Law,  over  the 
Gauls  and  Britons. 

Respecting  Roman  national  character,  I  will  simply  beg  you 
to  remember,  that  both  St.  Benedict  and  St.  Gregory  are  Ro- 
man patricians,  before  they  are  either  monk  or  pope  ;  respect- 
ing its  influence  on  Britain,  I  think  you  may  rest  content  with 
Shakespeare's  estimate  of  it.  Both  Lear  and  Cymbeline  be- 
long to  this  time,  so  difficult  to  our  apprehension,  when  the 
Briton  accepted  both  Roman  laws  and  Roman  gods.  There 
is  indeed  the  born  Kentish  gentleman's  protest  against  them 
in  Kent's — 

* '  Now,  by  Apollo,  king, 
Thou  swear'st  thy  gods  in  vain  "  ; 

but  both  Cordelia  and  Imogen  are  just  as  thoroughly  Roman 
ladies,  as  Virgilia  or  Calphurnia. 

*  Making  a  sign. 


398 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


Of  British  Christianity  and  the  Arthurian  Legends,  I  shall 
have  a  word  or  two  to  say  in  my  lecture  on  "  Fancy,"  in 
connection  with  the  similar  romance  which  surrounds  Theod- 
oric  and  Charlemagne  :  only  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  while 
both  Dietrich  and  Karl  are  themselves  more  wonderful  than 
the  legends  of  them,  Arthur  fades  into  intangible  vision  : — 
this  much,  however,  remains  to  this  day,  of  Arthurian  blood 
in  us,  that  the  richest  fighting  element  in  the  British  army 
and  navy  is  British  native, — that  is  to  say,  Highlander,  Irish, 
Welsh,  and  Cornish. 

Content,  therefore,  (means  being  now  given  you  for  filling 
gaps,)  with  the  estimates  given  you  in  the  preceding  lecture 
of  the  sources  of  instruction  possessed  by  the  Saxon  capital,  I 
pursue  to-day  our  question  originally  proposed,  what  London 
might  have  been  by  this  time,  if  the  nature  of  the  flowers, 
trees,  and  children,  born  at  the  Thames-side,  had  been  rightly 
understood  and  cultivated. 

Many  of  my  hearers  can  imagine  far  better  than  I,  the  look 
that  London  must  have  had  in  Alfred's  and  Canute's  days.*  I 
have  not,  indeed,  the  least  idea  myself  what  its  buildings  were 
like,  but  certainly  the  groups  of  its  shipping  must  have  been 
superb  ;  small,  but  entirely  seaworthy  vessels,  manned  by  the 
best  seamen  in  the  then  world.  Of  course,  now,  at  Chatham 
and  Portsmouth  we  have  our  ironclads, — extremely  beautiful 
and  beautifully  manageable  things,  no  doubt — to  set  against 
this  Saxon  and  Danish  shipping  ;  but  the  Saxon  war-ships  lay 

*  Here  Alfred's  Silver  Penny  was  shown  and  commented  on,  thns  :  — 
Of  what  London  was  like  in  the  days  of  faith,  I  can  show  you  one  piece 
of  artistic  evidence.  It  is  Alfred  s  silver  penny  struck  in  London  mint. 
The  character  of  a  coinage  is  quite  conclusive  evidence  in  national  his- 
tory, and  there  is  no  great  empire  in  progress,  but  tells  its  story  in  beau- 
tiful coins.  Here  in  Alfred's  penny,  a  round  coin  with  L.O.N. D.I. N.I.  A. 
struck  on  it,  you  have  just  the  same  beauty  of  design,  the  same  enig- 
matical arrangement  of  letters,  as  in  the  early  inscription,  which  it  is 
"  the  pride  of  my  life  "  to  have  discovered  at  Venice.  This  inscription 
("the  first  words  that  Venice  ever  speaks  aloud  ")  is,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, on  the  Church  of  St.  Giacomo  di  Rialto,  and  runs,  being  inter 
prated — '  'Around  this  temple,  let  the  merchant's  law  be  just,  his  weight* 
true,  and  his  covenants  faithful." 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


399 


here  at  London  shore — bright  with  banner  and  shield  and 
dragon  prow, — instead  of  these  you  may  be  happier,  but  are  not 
handsomer,  in  having,  now,  the  coal-barge,  the  penny  steamer, 
and  the  wherry  full  of  shop  boys  and  girls.  I  dwell  how- 
ever for  a  moment  only  on  the  naval  aspect  of  the  tidal  waters 
in  the  days  of  Alfred,  because  I  can  refer  you  for  all  detail  on 
this  part  of  our  subject  to  the  wonderful  opening  chapter  of 
Dean  Stanley's  History  of  Westminster  Abbey,  where  you  will 
find  the  origin  of  the  name  of  London  given  as  "The  City  of 
Ships/1  He  does  not,  however,  tell  you,  that  there  were  built, 
then  and  there,  the  biggest  war-ships  in  the  world.  I  have 
often  said  to  friends  who  praised  my  own  books  that  I  would 
rather  have  written  that  chapter  than  any  one  of  them ;  yet  if 
I  had  been  able  to  write  the  historical  part  of  it,  the  conclu- 
sions drawn  would  have  been  extremely  different.  The  Dean 
indeed  describes  with  a  poet's  joy  the  River  of  wells,  which 
rose  from  those  "  once  consecrated  springs  which  now  lie 
choked  in  Holywell  and  Clerkenwell,  and  the  rivulet  of  Ule- 
brig  which  crossed  the  Strand  under  the  Ivy  bridge  "  ;  but  it 
is  only  in  the  spirit  of  a  modern  citizen  of  Belgravia  that  he 
exults  in  the  fact  that  a  the  great  arteries  of  our  crowded 
streets,  the  vast  sewers  which  cleanse  our  habitations,  are  fed 
by  the  life-blood  of  those  old  and  living  streams  ;  that  under- 
neath our  tread  the  Tyburn,  and  the  Holborn,  and  the  Fleet, 
and  the  Wall  Brook,  are  still  pursuing  their  ceaseless  course, 
still  ministering  to  the  good  of  man,  though  in  a  far  different 
fashion  than  when  Druids  drank  of  their  sacred  springs,  mid 
Saxons  were  baptized  in  their  rushing  waters,  ages  ago." 

Whatever  sympathy  you  may  feel  with  these  eloquent  ex- 
pressions of  that  entire  complacency  in  the  present,  past,  and 
future,  which  peculiarly  animates  Dean  Stanley's  writings,  I 
must,  in  this  case,  pray  you  to  observe  that  the  transmuta- 
tion of  holy  wells  into  sewers  has,  at  least,  destroyed  the 
charm  and  utility  of  the  Thames  as  a  salmon  stream,  and  1 
must  ask  you  to  read  with  attention  the  succeeding  portions 
of  the  chapter  which  record  the  legends  of  the  river  fisheries 
in  their  relation  to  the  first  Abbey  of  Westminster ;  dedicated 
by  its  builders  to  St.  Peter,  not  merely  in  his  office  of  corner- 


400 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


stone  of  the  Church,  nor  even  figuratively  as  a  fisher  of  mei^ 
but  directly  as  a  fisher  of  fish  : — and  which  maintained  them- 
selves, you  will  see,  in  actual  ceremony  down  to  1382,  when  a 
fisherman  still  annually  took  his  place  beside  the  Prior,  after 
having  brought  in  a  salmon  for  St.  Peter,  which  was  carried 
in  state  down  the  middle  of  the  refectory. 

But  as  I  refer  to  this  page  for  the  exact  word,  my  eye  is 
caught  by  one  of  the  sentences  of  Londonian*  thought  which 
constantly  pervert  the  well-meant  books  of  pious  England. 
"  We  see  also,"  says  the  Dean,  "  the  union  of  innocent  fiction 
with  worldly  craft,  which  marks  so  many  of  the  legends  both 
of  Pagan  and  Christian  times."  I  might  simply  reply  to  this 
insinuation  that  times  which  have  no  legends  differ  from  the 
legendary  ones  merely  by  uniting  guilty,  instead  of  innocent, 
fiction,  with  worldly  craft ;  but  I  must  farther  advise  you  that 
the  legends  of  these  passionate  times  are  in  no  wise,  and  in 
no  sense,  fiction  at  all ;  but  the  true  record  of  impressions 
made  on  the  minds  of  persons  in  a  state  of  eager  spiritual  ex- 
citement, brought  into  bright  focus  by  acting  steadily  and 
frankly  under  its  impulses.  I  could  tell  you  a  great  deal  more 
about  such  things  than  you  would  believe,  and  therefore,  a 
great  deal  more  than  it  would  do  you  the  least  good  to  hear; 
— but  this  much  any  who  care  to  use  their  common  sense  mod- 
estly, cannot  but  admit,  that  unless  they  choose  to  try  the 
rough  life  of  the  Christian  ages,  they  cannot  understand  its 
practical  consequences.  You  have  all  been  taught  by  Lord 
Macau  lay  and  his  school  that  because  you  have  Carpets  in- 
stead of  rushes  for  your  feet ;  and  Feather-beds  instead  of 
fern  for  your  backs  ;  and  Kickshaws  instead  of  beef  for  your 
eating  ;  and  Drains  instead  of  Holy  Wells  for  your  drinking ; 
—that,  therefore,  you  are  the  Cream  of  Creation,  and  every 
one  of  you  a  seven-headed  Solomon.  Stay  in  those  pleasant 
circumstances  and  convictions  if  you  please  ;  but  don't  accuse 
your  roughly  bred  and  fed  fathers  of  telling  lies  about  the  aspect 
the  earth  and  sky  bore  to  them, — till  you  have  trodden  the 
earth  as  the}',  barefoot,  and  seen  the  heavens  as  they,  face  to 
face.  If  you  care  to  see  and  to  know  for  yourselves,  you  may 
*  Not  Londlniaiu 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


401 


do  it  with  little  pains  ;  you  need  not  do  any  great  thing,  you 
needn't  keep  one  eye  open  and  the  other  shut  for  ten  years 
over  a  microscope,  nor  fight  your  way  through  icebergs  and 
darkness  to  knowledge  of  the  celestial  pole.  Simply,  do  as 
much  as  king  after  king  of  the  Saxons  did, — put  rough  shoes 
on  your  feet  and  a  rough  cloak  on  your  shoulders,  and  walk  to 
Kome  and  back.  Sleep  by  the  roadside,  when  it  is  fine, — in 
the  first  outhouse  you  can  find,  when  it  is  wet ;  and  live  on 
bread  and  water,  with  an  onion  or  two,  all  the  way  ;  and  if  the 
experiences  which  you  will  have  to  relate  on  your  return  do 
not,  as  may  well  be,  deserve  the  name  of  spiritual ;  at  all  events 
you  will  not  be  disposed  to  let  other  people  regard  them  either 
as  Poetry  or  Fiction. 

With  this  warning,  presently  to  be  at  greater  length  insisted 
on,  I  trace  for  you,  in  Dean  Stanley's  words,  which  cannot  be 
bettered  except  in  the  collection  of  their  more  earnest  pas- 
sages from  among  his  interludes  of  graceful  but  dangerous 
qualification, — I  trace,  with  only  such  omission,  the  story  he 
has  told  us  of  the  foundation  of  that  Abbey,  which,  he  tells 
you,  was  the  Mother  of  London,  and  has  ever  been  the  shrine 
and  the  throne  of  English  faith  and  truth. 

"  The  gradual  formation  of  a  monastic  body,  indicated  in 
the  charters  of  Offa  and  Edgar,  marks  the  spread  of  the  Bene- 
dictine order  throughout  England,  under  the  influence  of 
Dunstan.  The  '  terror '  of  the  spot,  which  had  still  been  its 
chief  characteristic  in  the  charter  of  the  wild  Offa,  had,  in 
the  days  of  the  more  peaceful  Edgar,  given  way  to  a  dubious 
'  renowTn.'  Twelve  monks  is  the  number  traditionally  said  to 
have  been  established  by  Dunstan.  A  few  acres  farther  up 
the  river  formed  their  chief  property,  and  their  monastic  char- 
acter was  sufficiently  recognized  to  have  given  to  the  old  lo- 
cality of  the  c  terrible  place  '  the  name  of  the  '  Western  Mon- 
astery,' or  '  Minster  of  the  West.' " 

The  Benedictines  then — twelve  Benedictine  monks — thus 
began  the  building  of  existent  Christian  London.  You  know 
I  told  you  the  Benedictines  are  the  Doing  people,  as  the  dis* 
ciples  of  St.  Augustine  the  Sentimental  people.  The  Benedic- 
tines find  no  terror  in  their  own  thoughts — face  the  terror  of 


402 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


places — change  it  into  beauty  of  places, — make  this  terrible 
place,  a  Motherly  Place — Mother  of  London. 

This  first  Westminster,  however,  the  Dean  goes  on  to  say, 
"  seems  to  have  been  overrun  by  the  Danes,  and  it  would  have 
had  no  further  history  but  for  the  combination  of  circum- 
stances which  directed  hither  the  notice  of  Edward  the  Con- 
fessor. 

I  haven't  time  to  read  you  all  the  combination  of  circum- 
stances.   The  last  clinching  circumstance  was  this — 

u  There  was  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Worcester,  'far  from 
men  in  the  wilderness,  on  the  slope  of  a  wood,  in  a  cave  deep 
down  in  the  grey  rock,'  a  holy  hermit  '  of  great  age,  living  on 
fruits  and  roots/  One  night  when,  after  reading  in  the  Script- 
ures '  how  hard  are  the  pains  of  hell,  and  how  the  enduring- 
life  of  Heaven  is  sweet  and  to  be  desired,'  he  could  neither  sleep 
nor  repose,  St.  Peter  appeared  to  him,  '  bright  and  beautiful, 
like  to  a  clerk,'  and  warned  him  to  tell  the  King  that  he  was 
released  from  his  vow  ;  that  on  that  very  day  his  messengers 
would  return  from  Rome  ; "  (that  is  the  combination  of  cir- 
cumstances— bringing  Pope's  order  to  build  a  church  to 
release  the  King  from  his  vow '  of  pilgrimage)  ;  "  that  c  at 
Thorney,  two  leagues  from  the  city/  was  the  spot  marked  out 
where,  in  an  ancient  church,  '  situated  low,'  he  was  to  estab- 
lish a  perfect  Benedictine  monastery,  which  should  be  'the 
gate  of  heaven,  the  ladder  of  prayer,  whence  those  who  serve 
St.  Peter  there,  shall  by  him  be  admitted  into  Paradise.'  The 
hermit  writes  the  account  of  the  vision  on  parchment,  seals  it 
with  wax,  and  brings  it  to  the  King,  who  compares  it  with  the 
answer  of  the  messengers,  just  arrived  from  Rome,  and  deter- 
mines  on  carrying  out  the  design  as  the  Apostle  had  ordered. 

"  The  ancient  church,  'situated  low,'  indicated  in  this 
vision  the  one  whose  attached  monastery  had  been  destroyed 
by  the  Danes,  but  its  little  church  remained,  and  was  already 
dear  to  the  Confessor,  not  only  from  the  lovely  tradition  of  its 
dedication  by  the  spirit  of  St.  Peter  ; "  (you  must  read  that  for 
yourselves;)  "but  also  because  of  two  miracles  happening 
there  to  the  King  himself. 

H  The  first  was  the  cure  of  a  cripple,  who  sat  in  the  road  be 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


408 


tween  the  Palace  and  1  the  Chapel  of  St.  Peter/  which  was 
'  near/  and  who  explained  to  the  Chamberlain  Hugolin  that, 
after  six  pilgrimages  to  Rome  in  vain,  St.  Peter  had  promised 
his  cure  if  the  King  would,  on  his  own  royal  neck,  carry  him 
to  the  Monastery.  The  King  immediately  consented  ;  and, 
amidst  the  scoffs  of  the  court,  bore  the  poor  man  to  the  steps 
of  the  High  Altar.  There  the  cripple  was  received  by  Godric 
the  sacristan,  and  walked  away  on  his  own  restored  feet, 
hanging  his  stool  on  the  wall  for  a  trophy. 

"  Before  that  same  High  Altar  was  also  believed  to  have 
been  seen  one  of  the  Eucharistical  portents,  so  frequent  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  A  child,  (  pure  and  bright  like  a  spirit/  ap- 
peared to  the  King  in  the  sacramental  elements.  Leofric, 
Earl  of  Mercia,  who,  w7ith  his  famous  countess,  Godiva,  was 
present,  saw  it  also. 

"  Such  as  these  were  the  motives  of  Edward.  Under  their 
influence  was  fixed  what  has  ever  since  been  the  local  centre 
of  the  English  monarchy." 

"  Such  as  these  were  the  motives  of  Edward,"  says  the 
Dean.  Yes,  certainty  ;  but  such  as  these  also,  first,  were  the 
acts  and  visions  of  Edward.  Take  care  that  you  don't  slip 
away,  by  the  help  of  the  glycerine  of  the  word  "  motives," 
into  fancying  that  all  these  tales  are  only  the  after  colours  and 
pictorial  metaphors  of  sentimental  piety.  They  are  either 
plain  truth  or  black  lies  ;  take  your  choice, — but  don't  tickle 
and  treat  yourselves  with  the  prettiness  or  the  grotesqueness 
of  them,  as  if  they  wrere  Anclerssen's  fairy  tales.  Either  the 
King  did  carry  the  beggar  on  his  back,  or  he  didn't ;  either 
Godiva  rode  through  Coventry,  or  she  didn't  ;  either  the 
Earl  Leofric  saw  the  vision  of  the  bright  child  at  the  altar 
— or  he  lied  like  a  knave.  Judge,  as  you  will ;  but  do  not 
Doubt. 

"  The  Abbey  was  fifteen  years  in  building.  The  King  spent 
upon  it  one-tenth  of  the  property  of  the  kingdom.  It  was  to 
be  a  marvel  of  its  kind.  As  in  its  origin  it  bore  the  traces  of 
the  fantastic  and  childish  "  (I  must  pause,  to  ask  you  to  sub- 
stitute for  these  blameful  terms,  '  fantastic  and  childish/  the 
better  ones  of  '  imaginative  and  pure')  "  character  of  the  King 


404 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


and  of  the  age  ;  in  its  architecture  it  bore  the  stamp  of  the 
peculiar  position  which  Edward  occupied  in  English  history 
between  Saxon  and  Norman.  By  birth  he  was  a  Saxon,  but 
in  all  else  he  was  a  foreigner.  Accordingly  the  Church  at 
Westminster  was  a  wide-sweeping  innovation  on  all  that  had 
been  seen  before.  i  Destroying  the  old  building/  he  says  in 
his  charter,  '  I  have  built  up  a  new  one  from  the  very  foun- 
dation.' Its  fame  as  a  'new  style  of  composition'  lingered  in 
the  minds  of  men  for  generations.  It  was  the  first  cruciform 
church  in  England,  from  which  all  the  rest  of  like  shape  were 
copied — an  expression  of  the  increasing  hold  which,  in  the 
tenth  century,  the  idea  of  the  Crucifixion  had  laid  on  the 
imagination  of  Europe.  The  massive  roof  and  pillars  formed 
a  contrast  with  the  rude  wooden  rafters  and  beams  of  the 
common  Saxon  churches.  Its  very  size — occupying,  as  it  did, 
almost  the  whole  area  of  the  present  building — wras  in  itself 
portentous.  The  deep  foundations,  of  large  square  blocks  of 
grey  stone,  were  duly  laid  ;  the  east  end  was  rounded  into  an 
apse  ;  a  tower  rose  in  the  centre,  crowned  by  a  cupola  of 
wood.  At  the  western  end  were  erected  two  smaller  towers, 
with  five  large  bells.  The  hard  strong  stones  were  richly 
sculptured  ;  the  windows  were  filled  with  stained  glass  ;  the 
roof  was  covered  with  lead.  The  cloisters,  chapter-house, 
refectory,  dormitory,  the  infirmary,  with  its  spacious  chapel, 
if  not  completed  by  Edward,  were  all  begun,  and  finished  in 
the  next  generation  on  the  same  plan.  This  structure,  vener- 
able as  it  would  be  if  it  had  lasted  to  our  time,  has  almost 
entirely  vanished.  Possibly  one  vast  dark  arch  in  the  south- 
ern transept,  certainly  the  substructures  of  the  dormitory, 
with  their  huge  pillars,  'grand  and  regal  at  the  bases  and 
capitals,'  the  massive5  low-browed  passage  leading  from  the 
great  cloister  to  Little  Dean's  Yard,  and  some  portions  of  the 
refectory  and  of  the  infirmary  chapel,  remain  as  specimens  of 
the  work  which  astonished  the  last  age  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
and  the  first  age  of  the  Norman  monarchy." 

Hitherto  I  have  read  to  you  with  only  supplemental  com- 
ment. But  in  the  next  following  passage,  with  which  I  close 
my  series  of  extracts,  sentence  after  sentence  occurs,  at  which 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


405 


as  I  read,  I  must  raise  my  hand,  to  mark  it  for  following  dep- 
recation, or  denial. 

"  In  the  centre  of  Westminster  Abbey  thus  lies  its  Founder, 
and  such  is  the  story  of  its  foundation.  Even  apart  from  the 
legendary  elements  in  which  it  is  involved,  it  is  impossible 
not  to  be  struck  by  the  fantastic  character  of  all  its  circum- 
stances. We  seem  to  be  in  a  world  of  poetry."  (I  protest, 
No.)  "  Edward  is  four  centuries  later  than  Ethelbert  and 
Augustine  ;  but  the  origin  of  Canterbury  is  commonplace  and 
prosaic  compared  with  the  origin  of  Westminster."  (Yes, 
that's  true.)  "  We  can  hardly  imagine  a  figure  more  incon- 
gruous  to  the  soberness  of  later  times  than  the  quaint,  irreso- 
lute, wayward  prince  whose  chief  characteristics  have  just 
been  described.  His  titles  of  Confessor  and  Saint  belong  not 
to  the  general  instincts  of  Christendom ;  but  to  the  most 
transitory  feelings  of  the  age."  (I  protest,  No.)  "  His  opin- 
ions, his  prevailing  motives,  were  such  as  in  no  part  of  mod- 
ern Europe  would  now  be  shared  by  any  educated  teacher  or 
ruler."  (That's  true  enough.)  "But  in  spite  of  these  irrec- 
oncilable differences,  there  was  a  solid  ground  for  the  charm 
which  he  exercised  over  his  contemporaries.  His  childish 
and  eccentric  fancies  have  passed  away;"  (I  protest,  No;) 
"  but  his  innocent  faith  and  his  sympathy  with  his  people  are 
qualities  which,  even  in  our  altered  times,  may  still  retain 
their  place  in  the  economy  of  the  world.  Westminster  Abbey, 
so  wTe  hear  it  said,  sometimes  with  a  cynical  sneer,  sometimes 
with  a  timorous  scruple,  has  admitted  within  its  walls  many 
who  have  been  great  without  being  good,  noble  with  a  noble- 
ness of  the  earth  earthy,  worldly  with  the  wisdom  of  this 
world.  But  it  is  a  counterbalancing  reflection,  that  the  cen^ 
tral  tomb,  round  which  all  those  famous  names  have  clustered, 
contains  the  ashes  of  one  who,  weak  and  erring  as  he  was, 
rests  his  claims  of  interment  here,  not  on  any  act  of  power  or 
fame,  but  only  on  his  artless  piety  and  simple  goodness.  He, 
towards  whose  dust  was  attracted  the  fierce  Norman,  and  the 
proud  Plantagenet,  and  the  grasping  Tudor,  and  the  fickle 
Stuart,  even  the  Independent  Oliver,  the  Dutch  William,  and 
the  Hanoverian  George,  was  one  whose  humble  graces  are 


406 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


within  the  reach  of  every  man,  woman,  and  child  of  every 
time,  if  we  rightly  part  the  immortal  substance  from  the  per- 
ishable form." 

Now  I  have  read  you  these  passages  from  Dean  Stanley  as 
the  most  accurately  investigatory,  the  most  generously  sym- 
pathetic, the  most  reverently  acceptant  account  of  these  days, 
and  their  people,  which  you  can  yet  find  in  any  English  his- 
tory. But  consider  now,  point  by  point,  where  it  leaves  you. 
You  are  told,  first,  that  you  are  living  in  an  age  of  poetry. 
But  the  days  of  poetry  are  those  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton, 
not  of  Bede  :  nay,  for  their  especial  wealth  in  melodious  the- 
ology and  beautifully  rhythmic  and  pathetic  meditation,  per- 
haps the  days  which  have  given  us  £  Hiawatha/  'In  Memori- 
am,'  'The  Christian  Year/  and  the  'Soul's  Diary'  of  George 
Macdonald,  may  be  not  with  disgrace  compared  with  those  of 
Caedmon.  And  nothing  can  be  farther  different  from  the 
temper,  nothing  less  conscious  of  the  effort,  of  a  poet,  than 
any  finally  authentic  document  to  which  you  can  be  referred 
for  the  relation  of  a  Saxon  miracle. 

I  will  read  you,  for  a  perfectly  typical  example,  an  account 
of  one  from  Bede's  'Life  of  St.  Cuthbert.'  The  passage  is  a 
favourite  one  of  my  own,  but  I  do  not  in  the  least  anticipate 
its  producing  upon  you  the  solemnizing  effect  which  I  think  I 
could  command  from  reading,  instead,  a  piece  of  'Marmion/ 
'  Manfred/  or  £  Childe  Harold.' 

*  •  •  "  He  had  one  day  left  his  cell  to  give  advice  to  some 
visitors  ;  and  when  he  had  finished,  he  said  to  them,  '  I  must 
now  go  in  again,  but  do  you,  as  you  are  inclined  to  depart, 
first  take  food  ;  and  when  you  have  cooked  and  eaten  that 
goose  which  is  hanging  on  the  wall,  go  on  board  your  vessel 
in  God's  name  and  return  home/  He  then  uttered  a  prayer, 
and,  having  blessed  them,  went  in.  But  they,  as  he  had  bid- 
den them,  took  some  food ;  but  having  enough  provisions  of 
their  own,  which  they  had  brought  with  them,  they  did  not 
touch  the  goose. 

"But  when  they  had  refreshed  themselves  they  tried  to  go 
on  board  their  vessel,  but  a  sudden  storm  utterly  prevented 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


407 


them  from  putting  to  sea.  They  were  thus  detained  seven 
days  in  the  island  by  the  roughness  of  the  waves,  and  yet  they 
could  not  call  to  mind  what  fault  they  had  committed.  They 
therefore  returned  to  have  an  interview  with  the  holy  father, 
and  to  lament  to  him  their  detention.  He  exhorted  them  to 
be  patient,  and  on  the  seventh  day  came  out  to  console  their 
sorrow,  and  to  give  them  pious  exhortations.  When,  however, 
he  had  entered  the  house  in  which  they  were  stopping,  and 
saw  that  the  goose  was  not  eaten,  he  reproved  their  disobedi- 
ence with  mild  countenance  and  in  gentle  language  :  '  Have 
you  not  left  the  goose  still  hanging  in  its  place  ?  What  won- 
der is  it  that  the  storm  has  prevented  your  departure  ?  Put 
it  immediately  into  the  caldron,  and  boil  and  eat  it,  that  the 
sea  may  become  tranquil,  and  you  may  return  home.' 

"  They  immediately  did  as  he  commanded  ;  and  it  happened 
most  wonderfully  that  the  moment  the  kettle  began  to  boil 
the  wind  began  to  cease,  and  the  waves  to  be  still.  Having 
finished  their  repast,  and  seeing  that  the  sea  wras  calm,  they 
went  on  board,  and  to  their  great  delight,  though  with  shame 
for  their  neglect,  reached  home  with  a  fair  wind.  Now  this, 
as  I  have  related,  I  did  not  pick  up  from  any  chance  authority, 
but  I  had  it  from  one  of  those  who  were  present,  a  most  rev- 
erend monk  and  priest  of  the  same  monastery,  Cynemund, 
who  still  lives,  known  to  many  in  the  neighbourhood  for  hia 
years  and  the  purity  of  his  life." 

I  hope  that  the  memory  of  this  story,  which,  thinking  it 
myself  an  extremely  pretty  one,  I  have  given  you,  not  only  for 
a  type  of  sincerity  and  simplicity,  but  for  an  illustration  of 
obedience,  may  at  all  events  quit  you,  for  good  and  all,  of  the 
notion  that  the  believers  and  witnesses  of  miracle  were  poeti 
cal  persons.  Saying  no  more  on  the  head  of  that  allegation, 
I  proceed  to  the  Dean's  second  one,  which  I  cannot  but  inter- 
pret as  also  intended  to  be  injurious, — that  they  were  artless 
and  childish  ones  ;  and  that  because  of  this  rudeness  and 
puerility,  their  motives  and  opinions  would  not  be  shared  by 
any  statesman  of  the  present  day. 

It  is  perfectly  true  that  Edward  the  Confessor  was  himself 


408 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


in  many  respects  of  really  childish  temperament  ;  not  thero* 
fore,  perhaps,  as  I  before  suggested  to  you,  less  venerable. 
But  the  age  of  which  we  are  examining  the  progress,  was  by 
no  means  represented  or  governed  by  men  of  similar  disposi- 
tion. It  was  eminently  productive  of — it  was  altogether 
governed,  guided,  and  instructed  by — men  of  the  widest  and 
most  brilliant  faculties,  whether  constructive  or  speculative, 
that  the  world  till  then  had  seen  ;  men  whose  acts  became  the 
romance,  whose  thoughts  the  wisdom,  and  whose  arts  the 
treasure,  of  a  thousand  years  of  futurity. 

I  warned  you  at  the  close  of  last  lecture  against  the  too 
agreeable  vanity  of  supposing  that  the  Evangelization  of  the 
world  began  at  St.  Martin's,  Canterbury.  Again  and  again 
you  will  indeed  find  the  stream  of  the  Gospel  contracting  it- 
self into  narrow  channels,  and  appearing,  after  long-concealed 
nitration,  through  veins  of  unmeasured  rock,  With  the  bright 
resilience  of  a  mountain  spring.  But  you  will  find  it  the  only 
candid,  and  therefore  the  only  wise,  way  of  research,  to  look 
in  each  era  of  Christendom  for  the  minds  of  culminating 
power  in  all  its  brotherhood  of  nations  ;  and,  careless  of  local 
impulse,  momentary  zeal,  picturesqe  incident,  or  vaunted  mir- 
acle, to  fasten  your  attention  upon  the  force  of  character  in 
the  men,  whom,  over  each  newly-converted  race,  Heaven  visi- 
bly sets  for  its  shepherds  and  kings,  to  bring  forth  judgment 
unto  victory.  Of  these  I  will  name  to  you,  as  messengers  of 
God  and  masters  of  men,  five  monks  and  five  kings  ;  in  whose 
arms  during  the  range  of  swiftly  gainful  centuries  which  we 
are  following,  the  life  of  the  world  lay  as  a  nursling  babe. 
Remember,  in  their  successive  order, — of  monks,  St.  Jerome, 
St.  Augustine,  St.  Martin,  St.  Benedict,  and  St.  Gregory  ;  of 
kings, — and  your  national  vanity  may  be  surely  enough  ap- 
peased in  recognizing  two  of  them  for  Saxon, — Theodoric, 
Charlemagne,  Alfred,  Canute,  and  the  Confessor.  I  will  read 
three  passages  to  you,  out  of  the  literal  Words  of  three  of 
these  ten  men,  without  saying  wrhose  they  are,  that  you  may 
compare  them  with  the  best  and  most  exalted  you  have  read 
expressing  the  philosophy,  the  religion,  and  the  policy  of  to- 
day,— from  which  I  admit,  with  Dean  Stanley,  but  with  a  fa? 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


409 


different  meaning  from  his,  that  they  are  indeed  separate  for 
evermore. 

I  give  you  first,  for  an  example  of  Philosophy,  a  single  sen- 
tence, containing  all — so  far  as  I  can  myself  discern — that  it 
is  possible  for  us  to  know,  or  well  for  us  to  believe,  respect- 
ing the  world  and  its  laws. 

"  Of  God's  Universal  Providence,  ruling  all,  and  compris- 
ing all. 

" Wherefore  the  great  and  mighty  God;  He  that  made 
man  a  reasonable  creature  of  soul  and  body,  and  He  that  did 
neither  let  him  pass  unpunished  for  his  sin,  nor  yet  excluded 
him  from  mercy  ;  He  that  gave,  both  unto  good  and  bad,  es- 
sence with  the  stones,  power  of  production  with  the  trees, 
senses  with  the  beasts  of  the  field,  and  understanding  with  the 
angels ;  He  from  whom  is  all  being,  beauty,  form,  and  order, 
number,  weight,  and  measure  ;  He  from  whom  all  nature, 
mean  and  excellent,  all  seeds  of  form,  all  forms  of  seed,  all 
motion,  both  of  forms  and  seeds,  derive  and  have  being ;  He 
that  gave  flesh  the  original  beauty,  strength,  propagation, 
form  and  shape,  health  and  symmetry  ;  He  that  gave  the  un- 
reasonable soul,  sense,  memory,  and  appetite  ;  the  reasonable, 
besides  these,  fantasy,  understanding,  and  will ;  He,  I  say, 
having  left  neither  heaven,  nor  earth,  nor  angel,  nor  man,  no, 
nor  the  most  base  and  contemptible  creature,  neither  the 
bird's  feather,  nor  the  herb's  flower,  nor  the  tree's  leaf,  with- 
out the  true  harmony  of  their  parts,  and  peaceful  concord  of 
composition  : — It  is  in  no  way  credible  that  He  would  leave 
the  kingdoms  of  men  and  their  bondages  and  freedom  loose 
and  uncomprised  in  the  laws  of  His  eternal  providence."* 

This  for  the  philosophy.f  Next,  I  take  for  example  of  the 
Religion  of  our  ancestors,  a  prayer,  personally  and  passion- 
ately offered  to  the  Deity  conceived  as  you  have  this  moment 
heard. 

*  From  St.  Augustine's  '  Citie  of  God,'  Book  V.,  ch.  xi.  (English  trans., 
printed  by  George  Eld,  1610.) 

f  Here  one  of  the  "Stones  of  Westminster  "  was  shown  and  com- 
mented on. 


410  THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 

"  O  Thou  who  art  the  Father  of  that  Son  which  has  awak- 
ened us,  and  yet  urgeth  us  out  of  the  sleep  of  our  sins,  and 
exhorteth  us  that  we  become  Thine  ; 99  (note  you  that,  for  ap- 
prehension of  what  Redemption  means,  against  your  base  and 
cowardly  modern  notion  of  'scaping  whipping.  Not  to  take 
away  the  Punishment  of  Sin,  but  by  His  Resurrection  to  raise 
us  out  of  the  sleep  of  sin  itself  !  Compare  the  legend  at  the 
feet  of  the  Lion  of  the  Tribe  of  Judah  in  the  golden  Gospel 
of  Charles  le  Chauve  *  : — 

"Hie  Leo  Surgendo  port  as  confregit  Averni 
Qui  nunquam  dormit,  nusquam  dormitat  in  jevum  ; ") 

"  to  Thee,  Lord,  I  pray,  who  art  the  supreme  truth  ;  for  all 
the  truth  that  is,  is  truth  from  Thee.  Thee  I  implore,  O 
Lord,  who  art  the  highest  wisdom.  Through  Thee  are  wise 
all  those  that  are  so.  Thou  art  the  true  life,  and  through  Thee 
are  living  all  those  that  are  so.  Thou  art  the  supreme  felicity, 
and  from  Thee  all  have  become  happy  that  are  so.  Thou  art 
the  highest  good,  and  from  thee  all  beauty  springs.  Thou 
art  the  intellectual  light,  and  from  Thee  man  derives  his  un- 
derstanding. 

"To  Thee,  O  God,  I  call  and  speak.  Hear,  O  hear  me, 
Lord  !  for  Thou  art  my  God  and  my  Lord  ;  my  Father  and 
my  Creator  ;  my  ruler  and  my  hope  ;  my  wealth  and  my  hon- 
our ;  my  house,  my  country,  my  salvation,  and  my  life  !  Hear, 
hear  me,  O  Lord  !  Few  of  Thy  servants  comprehend  Thee. 
But  Thee  alone  I  love,f  indeed,  above  all  other  things.  Thee 
I  seek :  Thee  I  will  follow  :  Thee  I  am  ready  to  serve.  Un- 
der Thy  power  I  desire  to  abide,  for  Thou  alone  art  the  Sov- 
ereign of  all.    I  pray  Thee  to  command  me  as  Thou  wilt." 

You  see  this  prayer  is  simply  the  expansion  of  that  clause 
of  the  Lord's  Prayer  which  most  men  eagerly  omit  from  it,— 

*  At  Munich  :  the  leaf  has  been  exquisitely  drawn  and  legend  com* 
municated  to  me  by  Prof.  Westwood.    It  is  written  in  gold  on  purple. 

f  Meaning— not  that  he  is  of  those  few,  but  that,  without  comprehend 
ingj  at  least,  as  a  dog,  he  can  love. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


411 


Fiat  voluntas  tua.  In  being  so,  it  sums  the  Christian  prayer 
of  all  ages.  See  now,  in  the  third  place,  how  far  this  king's 
letter  I  am  going  to  read  to  you  sums  also  Christian  Policy. 

"Wherefore  I  render  high  thanks  to  Almighty  God,  for  the 
happy  accomplishment  of  all  the  desires  which  I  have  set  be- 
fore me,  and  for  the  satisfying  of  my  every  wish. 

"  Now  therefore,  be  it  known  to  you  all,  that  to  Almighty 
God  Himself  I  have,  on  my  knees,  devoted  my  life,  to  the  end 
that  in  all  things  I  may  do  justice,  and  with  justice  and  Tight- 
ness rule  the  kingdoms  and  peoples  under  me ;  throughout 
everything  preserving  an  impartial  judgment.  If,  heretofore, 
I  have,  through  being,  as  young  men  are,  impulsive  or  care- 
less, done  anything  unjust,  I  mean,  with  God's  help,  to  lose  no 
time  in  remedying  my  fault.  To  which  end  I  call  to  witness 
my  counsellors,  to  whom  I  have  entrusted  the  counsels  of  the 
kingdom,  and  I  charge  them  that  by  no  means,  be  it  through 
fear  of  me,  or  the  favour  of  any  other  powerful  personage,  to 
consent  to  any  injustice,  or  to  suffer  any  to  shoot  out  in  any 
part  of  my  kingdom.  I  charge  all  my  viscounts  and  those  set 
over  my  whole  kingdom,  as  they  wish  to  keep  my  friendship 
or  their  own  safety,  to  use  no  unjust  force  to  any  man,  rich  or 
poor ;  let  all  men,  noble  and  not  noble,  rich  and  poor  alike,  be 
able  to  obtain  their  rights  under  the  law's  justice  ;  and  from 
that  law  let  there  be  no  deviation,  either  to  favour  the  king  or 
any  powerful  person,  nor  to  raise  money  for  me.  I  have  no 
need  of  money  raised  by  what  is  unfair.  I  also  would  have 
you  know  that  I  go  now  to  make  peace  and  firm  treaty  by  the 
counsels  of  all  my  subjects,  with  those  nations  and  people  who 
wished,  had  it  been  possible  for  them  to  do  so,  which  it  was 
not,  to  deprive  us  alike  of  kingdom  and  of  life.  God  brought 
down  their  strength  to  nought :  and  may  He  of  His  benign 
love  preserve  us  on  our  throne  and  in  honour.  Lastly,  when 
I  have  made  peace  with  the  neighbouring  nations,  and  settled 
and  pacified  all  my  dominions  in  the  East,  so  that  we  may  no- 
where have  any  war  or  enmity  to  fear,  I  mean  to  come  to  Eng- 
land this  summer,  as  soon  as  I  can  fit  out  vessels  to  sail.  My 
reason,  however,  in  sending  this  letter  first  is  to  let  all  the 


412  THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


people  of  my  kingdom  share  in  the  joy  of  my  welfare :  for  as 
you  yourselves  know,  I  have  never  spared  myself  or  my  labour; 
nor  will  I  ever  do  so,  where  my  people  are  really  in  want  of 
some  good  that  I  can  do  them." 

What  think  you  now,  in  candour  and  honour,  you  youth  of 
the  latter  days, — what  think  you  of  these  types  of  the  thought, 
devotion,  and  government,  which  not  in  words,  but  pregnant 
and  perpetual  fact,  animated  these  which  you  have  been  ac- 
customed to  call  the  Dark  Ages  ? 

The  Philosophy  is  Augustine's  ;  the  Prayer  Alfred's  ;  and 
the  Letter  Canute's. 

And,  whatever  you  may  feel  respecting  the  beauty  or  wis- 
dom of  these  sayings,  be  assured  of  one  thing  above  all,  that 
they  are  sincere  ;  and  of  another,  less  often  observed,  that  they 
are  joyful. 

Be  assured,  in  the  first  place,  that  they  are  sincere.  The 
ideas  of  diplomacy  and  priestcraft  are  of  recent  times.  No 
false  knight  or  lying  priest  ever  prospered,  I  believe,  in  any 
age,  but  certainly  not  in  the  dark  ones.  Men  prospered  then, 
only  in  following  openly-declared  purposes,  and  preaching 
candidly  beloved  and  trusted  creeds. 

And  that  they  did  so  prosper,  in  the  degree  in  which  they 
accepted  and  proclaimed  the  Christian  Gospel,  may  be  seen 
by  any  of  you  in  your  historical  reading,  however  partial,  if 
only  you  will  admit  the  idea  that  it  could  be  so,  and  was 
likely  to  be  so.  You  are  all  of  you  in  the  habit  of  supposing 
that  temporal  prosperity  is  owing  either  to  worldly  chance  or 
to  worldly  prudence  ;  and  is  never  granted  in  any  visible  re- 
lation to  states  of  religious  temper.  Put  that  treacherous 
doubt  away  from  you,  with  disdain  ;  take  for  basis  of  reason- 
ing the  noble  postulate,  that  the  elements  of  Christian  faith 
are  sound, — instead  of  the  base  one,  that  they  are  deceptive  ; 
reread  the  great  story  of  the  world  in  that  light,  and  see  what 
a  vividly  real,  yet  miraculous  tenor,  it  will  then  bear  to  you. 

Their  faith  then,  I  tell  you  first,  was  sincere ;  I  tell  you 
secondly  that  it  was,  in  a  degree  few  of  us  can  now  conceive, 
joyful.    We  continually  hear  of  the  trials,  sometimes  of  the 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  FAITH. 


413 


victories,  of  Faith, — but  scarcely  ever  of  its  pleasures.  Where- 
as, at  this  time,  you  will  find  that  the  chief  delight  of  all  good 
men  was  in  the  recognition  of  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of 
the  Master,  who  had  come  to  dwell  with  them  upon  earth.  It 
is  almost  impossible  for  you  to  conceive  the  vividness  of  this 
sense  in  them  ;  it  is  totally  impossible  for  you  to  conceive  the 
comfort,  peace,  and  force  of  it.  In  everything  that  you  now 
do  or  seek,  you  expose  yourselves  to  countless  miseries  of 
shame  and  disappointment,  because  in  your  doing  you  depend 
on  nothing  but  your  own  powers,  and  in  seeking  choose  only 
your  own  gratification.  You  cannot  for  the  most  part  con- 
ceive of  any  work  but  for  your  own  interests,  or  the  interests 
of  others  about  whom  you  are  anxious  in  the  same  faithless 
way  ;  everything  about  which  passion  is  excited  in  you  or 
skill  exerted  is  some  object  of  material  life,  and  the  idea  of 
doing  anything  except  for  your  own  praise  or  profit  has  nar- 
rowed itself  into  little  more  than  the  precentor's  invitation  to 
the  company  with  little  voice  and  less  practice  to  "  sing  to  the 
praise  and  glory  of  God." 

I  have  said  that  you .  cannot  imagine  the  feeling  of  the 
energy  of  daily  life  applied  in  the  real  meaning  of  those 
words.  You  cannot  imagine  it,  but  you  can  prove  it.  Are 
any  of  you  willing,  simply  as  a  philosophical  experiment  in 
the  greatest  of  sciences,  to  adopt  the  principles  and  feelings 
of  these  men  of  a  thousand  years  ago  for  a  given  time,  say  for 
a  year  ?  It  cannot  possibly  do  you  an y  harm  to  try,  and  you 
cannot  possibly  learn  what  is  true  in  these  things,  without 
trying.  If  after  a  year's  experience  of  such  method  you  find 
yourself  no  happier  than  before,  at  least  you  will  be  able  to 
support  your  present  opinions  at  once  with  more  grace  and 
more  modesty  ;  having  conceded  the  trial  it  asked  for,  to  the 
opposite  side.  Nor  in  acting  temporarily  on  a  faith  you  do 
not  see  to  be  reasonable,  do  you  compromise  your  own  in- 
tegrity more,  than  in  conducting,  under  a  chemist's  directions, 
an  experiment  of  which  he  foretells  inexplicable  consequences. 
And  you  need  not  doubt  the  power  you  possess  over  your 
own  minds  to  do  this.  Were  faith  not  voluntary,  it  could  not 
be  praised,  and  would  not  be  rewarded. 


414 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


If  you  are  minded  thus  to  try,  begin  each  day  with  Alfred's 
prayer, — fiat  voluntas  tua  ;  resolving  that  you  will  stand  to  it, 
and  that  nothing  that  happens  in  the  course  of  the  day  shall 
displease  you.  Then  set  to  any  work  you  have  in  hand  with 
the  sifted  and  purified  resolution  that  ambition  shall  not  mix 
with  it,  nor  love  of  gain,  nor  desire  of  pleasure  more  than  is 
appointed  for  you  ;  and  that  no  anxiety  shall  touch  you  as  to 
its  issue,  nor  any  impatience  nor  regret  if  it  fail.  Imagine  that 
the  thing  is  being  done  through  you,  not  by  you :  that  the 
good  of  it  may  never  be  known,  but  that  at  least,  unless  by 
your  rebellion  or  foolishness,  there  can  come  no  evil  into  it, 
nor  wrong  chance  to  it.  Eesolve  also  with  steady  industry  to 
do  what  you  can  for  the  help  of  your  country  and  its  honour, 
and  the  honour  of  its  God  ;  and  that  you  will  not  join  hands  in 
its  iniquity,  nor  turn  aside  from  its  misery  ;  and  that  in  all  you 
do  and  feel  you  will  look  frankly  for  the  immediate  help  and 
direction,  and  to  your  own  consciences,  expressed  approval,  of 
God.  Live  thus,  and  believe,  and  with  swiftness  of  answer 
proportioned  to  the  frankness  of  the  trust,  most  surely  the 
God  of  hope  will  fill  you  with  all  joy  and  peace  in  believing. 

But,  if  you  will  not  do  this,  if  you  have  not  courage  nor 
heart  enough  to  break  away  the  fetters  of  earth,  and  take  up 
the  sensual  bed  of  it,  and  walk  ;  if  you  say  that  you  are  bound 
to  win  this  thing,  and  become  the  other  thing,  and  that  the 
washes  of  your  friends, — and  the  interests  of  your  family, — 
and  the  bias  of  your  genius, — and  the  expectations  of  your 
college, — and  all  the  rest  of  the  bow-wow- wow  of  the  wild 
dog-world,  must  be  attended  to,  whether  you  like  it  or  no, — 
then,  at  least,  for  shame  give  up  talk  about  being  free  or  in- 
dependent creatures  ;  recognize  yourselves  for  slaves  in  whom 
the  thoughts  are  put  in  ward  with  their  bodies,  and  their 
hearts  manacled  with  their  hands  :  and  then  at  least  also,  for 
shame,  if  you  refuse  to  believe  that  ever  there  were  men  who 
gave  their  souls  to  God, — know  and  confess  how  surely  there 
are  those  who  sell  them  to  His  adversary. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED.  415 


LECTURE  m. 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 

Alfred  to  Coeur  de  Lion. 

It  was  my  endeavour,  in  the  preceding  lecture,  to  vindicate 
the  thoughts  and  arts  of  our  Saxon  ancestors  from  whatever 
scorn  might  lie  couched  under  the  terms  applied  to  them  by 
Dean  Stanley, — ' fantastic,'*  and  'childish.'  To-day  my  task 
must  be  carried  forward,  first,  in  asserting  the  grace  in  fan- 
tasy, and  the  force  in  infancy,  of  the  English  mind,  before 
the  Conquest,  against  the  allegations  contained  in  the  final 
passage  of  Dean  Stanley's  description  of  the  first  founded 
Westminster ;  a  passage  which  accepts  and  asserts,  more  dis- 
tinctly than  any  other  equally  brief  statement  I  have  met 
with,  the  to  my  mind  extremely  disputable  theory,  that  the 
Norman  invasion  was  in  every  respect  a  sanitary,  moral,  and 
intellectual  blessing  to  England,  and  that  the  arrow  which 
slew  her  Harold  was  indeed  the  Arrow  of  the  Lord's  deliver- 
ance. 

"The  Abbey  itself,"  says  Dean  Stanley, — "the  chief  work 
of  the  Confessor's  life, — was  the  portent  of  the  mighty  future. 
When  Harold  stood  beside  his  sister  Edith,  on  the  day  of  the 
dedication,  and  signed  his  name  with  hers  as  witness  to  the 
Charter  of  the  Abbey,  he  might  have  seen  that  he  was  sealing  his 
own  doom,  and  preparing  for  his  own  destruction.  The  solid 
pillars,  the  ponderous  arches,  the  huge  edifice,  with  triple  tower 
and  sculptured  stones  and  storied  windows,  that  arose  in  the 
place  and  in  the  midst  of  the  humble  wooden  churches  and 
wattled  tenements  of  the  Saxon  period,  might  have  warned  the 
nobles  who  were  present  that  the  days  of  their  rule  were  num- 
bered, and  that  the  avenging,  civilizing,  stimulating  hand  of  an- 
other and  a  mightier  race  was  at  work,  which  would  change 
the  whole  face  of  their  language,  their  manners,  their  Church, 
and  their  commonwealth.  The  Abbey,  so  far  exceeding  the 
demands  of  the  dull  and  stagnant  minds  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  an- 


416 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


cestors,  was  founded  not  only  in  faith,  but  in  hope :  in  the 
hope  that  England  had  yet  a  glorious  career  to  run  ;  that  the 
line  of  her  sovereigns  would  not  be  broken,  even  when  the 
race  of  Alfred  had  ceased  to  reign." 

There  must  surely  be  some  among  my  hearers  who  are 
startled,  if  not  offended,  at  being  told  in  the  terms  which  1 
emphasized  in  this  sentence,  that  the  minds  of  our  Saxon 
fathers  were,  although  fantastic,  dull,  and,  although  childish, 
stagnant ;  that  farther,  in  their  fantastic  stagnation,  they  were 
savage, — and  in  their  innocent  dullness,  criminal ;  so  that  the 
future  character  and  fortune  of  the  race  depended  on  the 
critical  advent  of  the  didactic  and  disciplinarian  Norman 
baron,  at  once  to  polish  them,  stimulate,  and  chastise. 

Before  I  venture  to  say  a  word  in  distinct  arrest  of  this 
judgment,  I  will  give  you  a  chart,  as  clear  as  the  facts  ob- 
served in  the  two  previous  lectures  allow,  of  the  state  and 
prospects  of  the  Saxons,  when  this  violent  benediction  of  con- 
quest happened  to  them  :  and  especially  I  would  rescue, 
in  the  measure  that  justice  bids,  the  memory  even  of  their 
Pagan  religion  from  the  general  scorn  in  which  I  used  Car- 
lyle's  description  of  the  idol  of  ancient  Prussia  as  universally 
exponent  of  the  temper  of  Northern  devotion.  That  Triglaph, 
or  Triglyph  Idol,  (derivation  of  Triglaph  wholly  unknown  to 
me — I  use  Triglyph  only  for  my  own  handiest  epithet),  last 
set  up,  on  what  is  now  St.  Mary's  hill  in  Brandenburg,  in 
1023,  belonged  indeed  to  a  people  wonderfully  like  the  Sax- 
ons,— geographically  their  close  neighbours, — in  habits  of 
life,  and  aspect  of  native  land,  scarcely  distinguishable  from 
them, — in  Carlyle's  words,  a  "strong-boned,  iracund,  herds- 
man and  fisher  people,  highly  averse  to  be  interfered  with,  in 
their  religion  especially,  and  inhabiting  a  moory  flat  country, 
fall  of  lakes  and  woods,  but  with  plenty  also  of  alluvial  mud, 
grassy,  frugiferous,  apt  for  the  plough  " — in  all  things  like 
the  Saxons,  except,  as  I  read  the  matter,  in  that  '  aversion  to 
be  interfered  with '  which  you  modern  English  think  an  espe- 
cially Saxon  character  in  you — but  which  is,  on  the  contrary, 
you  will  find  on  examination,  by  no  means  Saxon  ;  but  only 
Wendisch,  Czech,  Serbic,  Sclavic, — other  hard  names  I  could 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


417 


easily  find  for  it  among  the  tribes  of  that  vehemently  heathen 
old  Preussen—  "  resolutely  worshipful  of  places  of  oak  trees, 
of  wooden  or  stone  idols,  of  Bangputtis,  Patkullos,  and  I  know 
not  what  diabolic  dumb  blocks."  Your  English  "  dislike  to 
be  interfered  with  "  is  in  absolute  fellowship  with  these,  but 
only  gathers  itself  in  its  places  of  Stalks,  or  chimneys,  in- 
stead of  oak  trees,  round  its  idols  of  iron,  instead  of  wood, 
diabolically  vocal  now  ;  strident,  and  sibilant,  instead  of  dumb. 

Far  other  than  these,  their  neighbour  Saxons,  Jutes  and 
Angles  ! — tribes  between  whom  the  distinctions  are  of  no  mo- 
ment whatsoever,  except  that  an  English  boy  or  girl  may  with 
grace  remember  that  c  Old  England,'  exactly  and  strictly  so 
called,  was  the  small  district  in  the  extreme  south  of  Den- 
mark, totally  with  its  islands  estimable  at  sixty  miles  square 
of  dead  flat  land.  Directly  south  of  it,  the  definitely  so-called 
Saxons  held  the  western  shore  of  Holstein,  with  the  estuary 
of  the  Elbe,  and  the  sea-mark  isle,  Heligoland.  But  since 
the  principal  temple  of  Saxon  worship  was  close  to  Leipsic,* 
we  may  include  under  our  general  term,  Saxons,  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  whole  level  district  of  North  Germany,  from  the 
Gulf  of  Flensburg  to  the  Hartz  ;  and,  eastward,  all  the  coun- 
try watered  by  the  Elbe  as  far  as  Saxon  Switzerland. 

Of  the  character  of  this  race  I  will  not  here  speak  at  any 
length  :  only  note  of  it  this  essential  point,  that  their  religion 
was  at  once  more  practical  and  more  imaginative  than  that  of 
the  Norwegian  peninsula  ;  the  Norse  religion  being  the  con- 
ception rather  of  natural  than  moral  powers,  but  the  Saxon, 
primarily  of  moral,  as  the  lords  of  natural — their  central  di- 
vine image,  Irminsul,f  holding  the  standard  of  peace  in  her 
right  hand,  a  balance  in  her  left.  Such  a  religion  may  de- 
generate into  mere  slaughter  and  rapine  ;  but  it  has  the 
making  in  it  of  the  noblest  men. 

More  practical  at  all  events,  whether  for  good  or  evil,  in 
this  trust  in  a  future  reward  for  courage  and  purity,  than  the 
mere  Scandinavian  awe  of  existing  Earth  and  Cloud,  the 
Saxon  religion  was  also  more  imaginative,  in  its  nearer  con- 
*  Turner,  vol.  i.  p.  223. 

f  Properly  plural  ' Images  ' — Irminsul  and  Irminsula. 


418 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


ception  of  human  feeling  in  divine  creatures.  And  when  this 
wide  hope  and  high  reverence  had  distinct  objects  of  worship 
and  prayer,  offered  to  them  by  Christianity,  the  Saxons  easily 
became  pure,  passionate,  and  thoughtful  Christians ;  while 
the  Normans,  to  the  last,  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  appre- 
hending the  Christian  teaching  of  the  Franks,  and  still  deny 
the  power  of  Christianity,  even  when  they  have  become  in- 
veterate in  its  form. 

Quite  the  deepest-thoughted  creatures  of  the  then  animate 
world,  it  seems  to  me,  these  Saxon  ploughmen  of  the  sand  or 
the  sea,  with  their  worshipped  deity,  of  Beauty  and  Justice,  a 
red  rose  on  her  banner,  for  best  of  gifts,  and  in  her  right  hand, 
instead  of  a  sword,  a  balance,  for  due  doom,  without  wrath, 
— of  retribution  in  her  left.  Far  other  than  the  Wends, 
though  stubborn  enough,  they  too,  in  battle  rank, — seven 
times  rising  from  defeat  against  Charlemagne,  and  unsubdued 
but  by  death — yet,  by  no  means  in  that  John  Bull's  manner 
of  yours,  '  averse  to  be  interfered  with,'  in  their  opinions,  or 
their  religion.  Eagerly  docile  on  the  contrary — joyfully  rev- 
erent— instantly  and  gratefully  acceptant  of  whatever  better 
insight  or  oversight  a  stranger  could  bring  them,  of  the  things 
of  God  or  man. 

And  let  me  here  ask  you  especially  to  take  account  of  that 
origin  of  the  true  bearing  of  the  Flag  of  England,  the  Bed 
Eose.  Her  own  madness  defiled  afterwards  alike  the  white 
and  red,  into  images  of  the  paleness,  or  the  crimson,  of  death  ; 
but  the  Saxon  Bose  was  the  symbol  of  heavenly  beauty  and 
peace. 

I  told  you  in  my  first  lecture  that  one  swift  requirement  in 
our  school  would  be  to  produce  a  beautiful  map  of  England, 
including  old  Northumberland,  giving  the  whole  country,  in 
its  real  geography,  between  the  Frith  of  Forth  and  Straits  of 
Dover,  and  with  only  six  sites  of  habitation  given,  besides 
those  of  Edinburgh  and  London, — namely,  those  of  Canter- 
bury and  "Winchester,  York  and  Lancaster,  Holy  Island  and 
Melrose  ;  the  latter  instead  of  lona,  because,  as  wre  have  seen, 
the  influence  of  St.  Columba  expires  with  the  advance  of 
Christianity,  while  that  of  Cuthbert  of  Melrose  connects  itself 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


419 


with  the  most  sacred  feelings  of  the  entire  Northumbrian 
kingdom,  and  Scottish  border,  down  to  the  days  of  Scott — 
wreathing  also  into  its  circle  many  of  the  legends  of  Arthur. 
Will  you  forgive  my  connecting  the  personal  memory  of 
having  once  had  a  wild  rose  gathered  for  me,  in  the  glen  of 
Thomas  the  Rhymer,  by  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  few  re- 
maining Catholic  houses  of  Scotland,  with  the  pleasure  I  have 
in  reading  to  you  this  following  true  account  of  the  origin  of 
the  name  of  St.  Cuthbert's  birthplace  ; — the  rather  because  I 
owe  it  to  friendship  of  the  same  date,  with  Mr.  Cockburn 
Muir,  of  Melrose. 

"  To  those  who  have  eyes  to  read  it,"  says  Mr.  Muir,  "  the 
name  '  Melrose  •  is  written  full  and  fair,  on  the  fair  face  of  all 
this  reach  of  the  valley.  The  name  is  anciently  spelt  Mailros, 
and  later,  Malros,  never  Mulros  ;  (cMul '  being  the  Celtic  word 
taken  to  mean  '  bare Ros  is  Rose  ;  the  forms  Meal  or  Mol 
imply  great  quantity  or  number.  Thus  Malros  means  the 
place  of  many  roses. 

"  This  is  precisely  the  notable  characteristic  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. The  wild  rose  is  indigenous.  There  is  no  nook 
nor  cranny,  no  bank  nor  brae,  which  is  not,  in  the  time  of 
roses,  ablaze  with  their  exuberant  loveliness.  In  gardens,  the 
cultured  rose  is  so  prolific  that  it  spreads  literally  like  a  weed. 
But  it  is  worth  suggestion  that  the  wrord  may  be  of  the  same 
stock  as  the  Hebrew  rosh  (translated  ros  by  the  Septuagint), 
meaning  chief,  principal,  while  it  is  also  the  name  of  some 
flower ;  but  of  which  flower  is  now  unknown.  Affinities  of 
rosh  are  not  far  to  seek  ;  Sanskrit,  Baj(s),  Ba(yd)ni ;  Latin, 
Bex,  Reg(m&)." 

I  leave  it  to  Professor  Max  Muller  to  certify  or  correct  for 
you  the  details  of  Mr.  Cockburn's  research,* — this  main  head 

*  I  had  not  time  to  quote  it  fully  in  the  lecture  ;  and  in  my  ignorance, 
alike  of  Keltic  and  Hebrew,  can  only  submit  it  here  to  the  readers  ex- 
amination. "  The  ancient  Cognizance  of  the  town  confirms  this  etymol- 
ogy beyond  doubt,  with  customary  heraldic  precision.  The  shield  bears 
a  Rose  ;  with  a  Maul,  as  the  exact  phonetic  equivalent  for  the  expletive. 
If  the  herald  had  needed  to  express  '  bare  promontory,'  quite  certainly 
he  would  have  managed  it  somehow,    Not  only  this,  the  Earls  of 


420  THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


of  it  I  can  positively  confirm,  that  in  old  Scotch, — that  of 
Bishop  Douglas, — the  word  '  Rois '  stands  alike  for  King,  and 
Rose. 

Summing  now  the  features  I  have  too  shortly  specified  in 
the  Saxon  character, — its  imagination,  its  docility,  its  love  of 
knowledge,  and  its  love  of  beauty,  you  will  be  prepared  to  ac- 
cept my  conclusive  statement,  that  they  gave  rise  to  a  form  of 
Christian  faith  which  appears  to  me,  in  the  present  state  of 
my  knowledge,  one  of  the  purest  and  most  intellectual  ever  at- 
tained in  Christendom  ; — never  yet  understood,  partly  because 
of  the  extreme  rudeness  of  its  expression  in  the  art  of  manu- 
scripts, and  partly  because,  on  account  of  its  very  purity,  it 
sought  no  expression  in  architecture,  being  a  religion  of  daily 
life,  and  humble  lodging.  For  these  two  practical  reasons, 
firsfc  j — and  for  this  more  weighty  third,  that  the  intellectual 
character  of  it  is  at  the  same  time  most  truly,  as  Dean  Stanley 
told  you,  childlike  ;  showing  itself  in  swiftness  of  imaginative 
apprehension,  and  in  the  fearlessly  candid  application  of  great 
principles  to  small  things.  Its  character  in  this  kind  may  be 
instantly  felt  by  any  sympathetic  and  gentle  person  who  will 
read  carefully  the  book  I  have  already  quoted  to  you,  the  Ven- 
erable Bede's  life  of  St.  Cuthbert ;  and  the  intensity  and  sin- 
cerity of  it  in  the  highest  orders  of  the  laity,  by  simply  count- 
ing the  members  of  Saxon  Royal  families  who  ended  their  lives 
in  monasteries. 

Haddington  were  first  created  Earls  of  Melrose  (1619) ;  and  their  Shield, 
quarterly,  is  charged,  for  Melrose,  in  2d  and  3d  (fesse  wavy  between) 
three  Roses  gu. 

"Beyond  this  ground  of  certainty,  we  may  indulge  in  a  little  excur- 
sus into  lingual  affinities  of  wide  range.  The  root  mol  is  clear  enough. 
It  is  of  the  same  stock  as  the  Greek  mala,  Latin  mul{tum),  and  Hebrew 
m'la.  But,  Rose  f  W e  call  her  Queen  of  Flowers,  and  since  before  the 
Persian  poets  made  much  of  her,  she  was  everywhere  Regina  Florum, 
why  should  not  the  name  mean  simply  the  Queen,  the  Chief  ?  Now, 
so  few  who  know  Keltic  know  also  Hebrew,  and  so  few  who  know  He- 
brew know  also  Keltic,  that  few  know  the  surprising  extent  of  the  af- 
finity that  exists— clear  as  day— between  the  Keltic  and  the  Hebrew 
vocabularies.  That  the  word  Rose  may  be  a  case  in  point  is  not  hazard 
ously  speculative." 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


421 


Now,  at  the  very  moment  when  this  faith,  innocence,  and 
ingenuity  were  on  the  point  of  springing  up  into  their  fruit- 
age, comes  the  Northern  invasion  ;  of  the  real  character  of 
which  you  can  gain  a  far  truer  estimate  by  studying  Alfred's 
former  resolute  contest  with  and  victory  over  the  native  Nor- 
man in  his  paganism,  than  by  your  utmost  endeavours  to  con- 
ceive the  character  of  the  afterwards  invading  Norman,  dis- 
guised, but  not  changed,  by  Christianity.  The  Norman  could 
not,  in  the  nature  of  him,  become  a  Christian  at  all ;  and  he 
never  did  ; — he  only  became,  at  his  best,  the  enemy  of  the 
Saracen.  What  he  was,  and  what  alone  he  was  capable  of 
being,  I  will  try  to-day  to  explain. 

And  here  I  must  advise  you  that  in  all  points  of  history  re- 
lating to  the  period  between  800  and  1200,  you  will  find  M. 
Viollet  le  Due,  incidentally  throughout  his  'Dictionary  of 
Architecture/  the  best-informed,  most  intelligent,  and  most 
thoughtful  of  guides.  His  knowledge  of  architecture,  carried 
down  into  the  most  minutely  practical  details, — (which  are  often 
the  most  significant),  and  embracing,  over  the  entire  surface 
of  France,  the  buildings  even  of  the  most  secluded  villages  ; 
his  artistic  enthusiasm,  balanced  by  the  acutest  sagacity,  and 
his  patriotism,  by  the  frankest  candour,  render  his  analy- 
sis of  history  during  that  active  and  constructive  period  the 
most  valuable  known  to  me,  and  certainly,  in  its  field,  exhaust- 
ive. Of  the  later  nationality  his  account  is  imperfect,  owing 
to  his  professional  interest  in  the  mere  science  of  architecture, 
and  comparative  insensibility  to  the  power  of  sculpture  ; — 
but  of  the  time  with  which  we  are  now  concerned,  whatever 
he  tells  you  must  be  regarded  with  grateful  attention. 

I  introduce,  therefore,  the  Normans  to  you,  on  their  first 
entering  France,  under  his  descriptive  terms  of  them.* 

"  As  soon  as  they  were  established  on  the  soil,  these  bar- 
barians became  the  most  hardy  and  active  builders.  Within 
the  space  of  a  century  and  a  half,  they  had  covered  the  coun- 
try on  which  they  had  definitely  landed,  with  religious,  mon- 
astic, and  civil  edifices,  of  an  extent  and  richness  then  little 


*  Article  * 4  Architecture,"  vol.  i.?  p.  138- 


422 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


common.  It  is  difficult  to  suppose  that  they  had  brought 
from  Norway  the  elements  of  art,*  but  they  were  possessed  by 
a  persisting  and  penetrating  spirit ;  their  brutal  force  did  not 
want  for  grandeur.  Conquerors,  they  raised  castles  to  as- 
sure their  domination  ;  they  soon  recognized  the  Moral  force 
of  the  clergy,  and  endowed  it  richly.  Eager  always  to  attain 
their  end,  when  once  they  saw  it,  they  never  left  one  of  their 
enterprises  unfinished,  and  in  that  they  differed  completely  from 
the  Southern  inhabitants  of  Gaul.  Tenacious  extremely,  they 
were  perhaps  the  only  ones  among  the  barbarians  estab- 
lished in  France  who  had  ideas  of  order ;  the  only  ones  who 
knew  how  to  preserve  their  conquests,  and  compose  a  state. 
They  found  the  remains  of  the  Carthaginian  arts  on  the 
territory  where  they  planted  themselves,  they  mingled 
with  those  their  national  genius,  positive,  grand,  and  yet 
supple." 

Supple,  'Delie,' — capable  of  change  and  play  of  the  mental 
muscle,  in  the  way  that  savages  are  not.  I  do  not,  myself, 
grant  this  suppleness  to  the  Norman,  the  less  because  another 
sentence  of  M.  le  Due's,  occurring  incidentally  in  his  account 
of  the  archivolt,  is  of  extreme  counter-significance,  and  wide 
application.  "  The  Norman  arch,"  he  says,  "  is  never  derived 
from  traditional  classic  forms,  but  only  from  mathematical  ar- 
rangement of  line."  Yes  ;  that  is  true  :  the  Norman  arch  is 
never  derived  from  classic  forms.  The  cathedral,-)-  whose  aisles 
you  saw  or  might  have  seen,  yesterday,  interpenetrated  with 
light,  whose  vaults  you  might  have  heard  prolonging  the 
sweet  divisions  of  majestic  sound,  would  have  been  built  in 
that  stately  symmetry  by  Norman  law,  though  never  an  arch 
at  Eome  had  risen  round  her  field  of  blood, — though  never 
her  Sublician  bridge  had  been  petrified  by  her  Augustan  pon~ 
tifices.  But  the  decoration,  though  not  the  structure  of  those 
arches,  they  owed  to  another  race,  J  whose  wrords  they  stole 
without  understanding,  though  three  centuries  before,  the 

*  They  had  brought  some,  of  a  variously  Charybdic,  Serpentine  and 
Diabolic  character. — J.  R. 

f  Of  Oxford,  during  the  afternoon  service. 
%  See  the  concluding  section  of  the  lecture. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


423 


Saxon  understood,  and  used,  to  express  the  most  solemn  maj* 
esty  of  his  Kinghood, — 

"EGO  EDGAR,  TOTIVS  ALRIONIS"— 

not  Eex,  that  would  have  meant  the  King  of  Kent  or  Mercia, 
not  of  England, — no,  nor  Imperator  ;  that  would  have  meant 
only  the  profane  power  of  Rome,  but  BASTLEVS,  meaning  a 
King  who  reigned  with  sacred  authority  given  by  Heaven  and 
Christ. 

With  far  meaner  thoughts,  both  of  themselves  and  their 
powers,  the  Normans  set  themselves  to  build  impregnable 
military  walls,  and  sublime  religious  ones,  in  the  best  possi- 
ble practical  ways ;  but  they  no  more  made  books  of  their 
church  fronts  than  of  their  bastion  flanks  ;  and  cared,  in  tli6 
religion  they  accepted,  neither  for  its  sentiments  nor  its 
promises,  but  only  for  its  immediate  results  on  national  order. 

As  I  read  them,  they  were  men  wholly  of  this  world,  bent 
on  doiug  the  most  in  it,  and  making  the  best  of  it  that  they 
could  ; — men,  to  their  death,  of  Deed,  never  pausing,  chang- 
ing, repenting,  or  anticipating,  more  than  the  completed 
square,  wev  \poyov,  of  their  battle,  their  keep,  and  their 
cloister.  Soldiers  before  and  after  everything,  they  learned 
the  lockings  and  bracings  of  their  stones  primarily  in  defence 
against  the  battering-ram  and  the  projectile,  and  esteemed 
the  pure  circular  arch  for  its  distributed  and  equal  strength 
more  than  for  its  beauty.  "I  believe  again,"  says  M.  le  Due,* 
"that  the  feudal  castle  never  arrived  at  its  perfectness  till 
after  the  Norman  invasion,  and  that  this  race  of  the  North 
was  the  first  to  apply  a  defensive  system  under  unquestiona- 
ble laws,  soon  followed  by  the  nobles  of  the  Continent,  after 
they  had,  at  their  own  expense,  learned  their  superiority." 

The  next  sentence  is  a  curious  one.  I  pray  your  attention 
to  it.  "  The  defensive  system  of  the  Norman  is  born  of  a 
profound  sentiment  of  distrust  and  cunning  foreign  to  the 
character  of  the  Frank"  You  will  find  in  all  my  previous 
notices  of  the  French,  continual  insistance  upon  their  natural 

*  Article  "  Chateau,"  vol.  iii.,  p.  65. 


424 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


Franchise,  and  also,  if  you  take  the  least  pains  in  analysis  of 
their  literature  down  to  this  day,  that  the  idea  of  falseness  is 
to  them  indeed  more  hateful  than  to  any  other  European  na- 
tion. To  take  a  quite  cardinal  instance.  If  you  compare 
Lucian's  and  Shakespeare's  Timon  with  Moliere's  Alceste,  you 
will  find  the  Greek  and  English  misanthropes  cUvell  only  on 
men's  ingratitude  to  themselves,  but  Alceste,  on  their  falsehood 
to  each  other. 

NowT  hear  M.  le  Due  farther  : 

"  The  castles  built  between  the  tenth  and  twelfth  centuries 
along  the  Loire,  Gironde,  and  Seine,  that  is  to  say,  along  the 
lines  of  the  Norman  invasions,  and  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
their  possessions,  have  a  peculiar  and  uniform  character  which 
one  finds  neither  in  central  France,  nor  in  Burgundy,  nor 
can  there  be  any  need  for  us  to  throw  light  on  {/aire  ressortir) 
.the  superiority  of  the  warrior  spirit  of  the  Normans,  during 
the  later  times  of  the  Carlo vingian  epoch,  over  the  spirit  of 
the  chiefs  of  Frank  descent,  established  on  the  Gailo-Eoman 
soil."    There's  a  bifc  of  honesty  in  a  Frenchman  for  you ! 

I  have  just  said  that  they  valued  religion  chiefly  for  its 
influence  of  order  in  the  present  world  :  being  in  this,  ob- 
serve, as  nearly  as  may  be  the  exact  reverse  of  modern  be- 
lievers, or  persons  who  profess  to  be  such, — of  whom  it  may 
be  generally  alleged,  too  truly,  that  they  value  religion  with 
respect  to  their  future  bliss  rather  than  their  present  duty  ; 
and  are  therefore  continually  careless  of  its  direct  commands, 
with  easy  excuse  to  themselves  for  disobedience  to  them. 
Whereas  the  Norman,  finding  in  his  own  heart  an  irresistible 
impulse  to  action,  and  perceiving  himself  to  be  set,  with  en- 
tirely strong  body,  brain,  and  will,  in  the  midst  of  a  weak 
and  dissolute  confusion  of  all  things,  takes  from  the  Bible  in- 
stantly into  his  conscience  every  exhortation  to  Do  and  to 
Govern  ;  and  becomes,  with  all  his  might  and  understanding, 
a  blunt  and  rough  servant,  knecht,  or  knight  of  Gocl,  liable 
to  much  misapprehension,  of  course,  as  to  the  services  imme- 
diately required  of  him,  but  supposing,  since  the  whole  make 
of  him,  outside  and  in,  is  a  soldier's,  that  God  meant  him  for 
a  soldier,  and  that  he  is  to  establish,  by  main  force,  the  Chris- 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  J)EED. 


425 


fcian  faith  and  works  all  over  the  world  so  far  as  he  compre* 
hends  them  ;  not  merely  with  the  Mahometan  indignation 
against  spiritual  error,  but  with  a  sound  and  honest  sours 
dislike  of  material  error,  and  resolution  to  extinguish  that, 
even  if  perchance  found  in  the  spiritual  persons  to  whom,  in 
their  office,  he  yet  rendered  total  reverence. 

"Which  force  and  faith  in  him  I  may  best  illustrate  by 
merely  putting  together  the  broken  paragraphs  of  Sismondi's 
account  of  the  founding  of  the  Norman  Kingdom  of  Sicily  : 
virtually  contemporary  with  the  conquest  of  England. 

"  The  Normans  surpassed  all  the  races  of  the  west  in  their 
ardour  for  pilgrimages.  They  would  not,  to  go  into  the  Holy 
Land,  submit  to  the  monotony  *  of  a  long  sea  voyage — the 
rather  that  they  found  not  on  the  Mediterranean  the  storms 
or  dangers  they  had  rejoiced  to  encounter  on  their  own  sea. 
They  traversed  by  land  the  whole  of  France  and  Italy,  trust- 
ing to  their  swords  to  procure  the  necessary  subsistence, f  if 
the  charity  of  the  faithful  did  not  enough  provide  for  it  with 
alms.  The  towns  of  Naples,  Amalfi,  Gaeta,  and  Bari,  held 
constant  commerce  with  Syria ;  and  frequent  miracles,  it  was 
believed,  illustrated  the  Monte  Cassino,  (St.  Benedict  again !) 
on  the  road  of  Naples,  and  the  Mount  of  Angels  (Garganus) 
above  Bari."  (Querceta  Gargani — verily,  laborant ;  now,  et 
orant.)  "  The  pilgrims  wished  to  visit  during  their  journey 
the  monasteries  built  on  these  two  mountains,  and  therefore 
nearly  always,  either  going  or  returning  to  the  Holy  Land, 
passed  through  Magna  Grcecia. 

"  In  one  of  the  earliest  years  of  the  eleventh  century,  about 
forty  of  these  religious  travellers,  having  returned  from  the 
Holy  Land,  chanced  to  have  met  together  in  Salerno  at  the 
moment  when  a  small  Saracen  fleet  came  to  insult  the  town, 
and  demand  of  it  a  military  contribution.  The  inhabitants 
of  South  Italy,  at  this  time,  abandoned  to  the  delights  of  their 

*  I  give  Sismondis  idea  at  it  stands,  but  there  was  no  question  in  the 
matter  of  monotony  or  of  danger.  The  journey  was  made  on  foot  be- 
cause it  was  the  most  laborious  way,  and  the  most  humble. 

f  See  farther  on,  p.  110,  the  analogies  with  English  arrangements  of 
the  same  kind. 


426 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


enchanted  climate,  had  lost  nearly  all  military  courage.  The 
Salernitani  saw  with  astonishment  forty  Norman  knights, 
after  having  demanded  horses  and  arms  from  the  Prince  of 
Salerno,  order  the  gates  of  the  town  to  be  opened,  charge 
the  Saracens  fearlessly,  and  put  them  to  flight.  The  Salerni- 
tani followed,  however,  the  example  given  them  by  these  brave 
warriors,  and  those  of  the  Mussulmans  who  escaped  their 
swords  were  forced  to  re-embark  in  all  haste. 

"  The  Prince  of  Salerno,  Guaimar  III.,  tried  in  vain  to  keep 
the  warrior-pilgrims  at  his  court :  but  at  his  solicitation  other 
companies  established  themselves  on  the  rocks  of  Salerno  and 
Amalfi,  until,  on  Christmas  Day,  1041,  (exactly  a  quarter  of  a 
century  before  the  coronation  here  at  Westminster  of  the 
Conqueror,)  they  gathered  their  scattered  forces  at  Aversa,* 
twelve  groups  of  them  under  twelve  chosen  counts,  and  all 
under  the  Lombard  Ardoin,  as  commander-in-chief."  Be  so 
good  as  to  note  that, — a  marvellous  key-note  of  historical  fact 
about  the  unjesting  Lombards.  I  cannot  find  the  total  Nor- 
man number  :  the  chief  contingent,  under  William  of  the  Iron 
Arm,  the  son  of  Tancred  of  Hauteville,  was  only  of  three  hun- 
dred knights  ;  the  Count  of  Aversa's  troop,  of  the  same  num- 
ber, is  named  as  an  important  part  of  the  little  army — admit 
it  for  ten  times  Tancred's,  three  thousand  men  in  all.  At 
Aversa,  these  three  thousand  men  form,  coolly  on  Christmas 
Day,  1041,  the  design  of — well,  I  told  you  they  didn't  design 
much,  only,  now  we're  here,  we  may  as  well,  while  we're 
about  it, — overthrow  the  Greek  empire  !  That  was  their 
little  game ! — a  Christmas  mumming  to  purpose.  The  fol- 
lowing year,  the  whole  of  Apulia  was  divided  among  them. 

I  will  not  spoil,  by  abstracting,  the  magnificent  following 
history  of  Kobert  Guiscard,  the  most  wonderful  soldier  of  that 
or  any  other  time  :  I  leave  you  to  finish  it  for  yourselves,  only 
asking  you  to  read  together  with  it,  the  sketch,  in  Turner's 
history  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  of  Alfred's  long  previous  war 
with  the  Norman  Hasting ;  pointing  out  to  you  for  foci  of 
character  in  each  contest,  the  culminating  incidents  of  naval 
battle.  In  Guiscard's  struggle  with  the  Greeks,  he  encounters 
*  In  Lombardy,  south  of  Pavia. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


427 


for  their  chief  naval  force  the  Venetian  fleet  under  the  Doge 
Domenico  Selvo.  The  Venetians  are  at  this  moment  un- 
doubted masters  in  all  naval  warfare  ;  the  Normans  are 
worsted  easily  the  first  day, — the  second  day,  fighting  harder, 
they  are  defeated  again,  and  so  disastrously  that  the  Venetian 
Doge  takes  no  precautions  against  them  on  the  third  day, 
thinking  them  utterly  disabled.  Guiscard  attacks  him  again 
on  the  third  day,  with  the  mere  wreck  of  his  own  ships,  and 
defeats  the  tired  and  amazed  Italians  finally ! 

The  sea-fight  between  Alfred's  ships  and  those  of  Hasting, 
ought  to  be  still  more  memorable  to  us.  Alfred,  as  I  noticed 
in  last  lecture,  had  built  war  ships  nearly  twice  as  long  as  the 
Normans',  swifter,  and  steadier  on  the  waves.  Six  Norman 
ships  were  ravaging  the  Isle  of  Wight ;  Alfred  sent  nine  of 
his  own  to  take  them.  The  King's  fleet  found  the  North- 
men's embayed,  and  three  of  them  aground.  The  three 
others  engaged  Alfred's  nine,  twice  their  size ;  two  of  the  Vi- 
king ships  were  taken,  but  the  third  escaped,  with  only  five 
men  !    A  nation  which  verily  took  its  pleasures  in  its  Deeds. 

But  before  I  can  illustrate  farther  either  their  deeds  or 
their  religion,  I  must  for  an  instant  meet  the  objection  which 
I  suppose  the  extreme  probity  of  the  nineteenth  centmy 
must  feel  acutely  against  these  men, — that  they  all  lived  by 
thieving. 

Without  venturing  to  allude  to  the  raison  d'etre  of  the 
present  French  and  English  Stock  Exchanges,  I  will  merely 
ask  any  of  you  here,  whether  of  Saxon  or  Norman  blood,  to 
define  for  himself  what  he  means  by  the  "  possession  of 
India."  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  all  wish  to  keep  India  ii> 
order,  and  in  like  manner  I  have  assured  you  that  Duke  Wil- 
liam wished  to  keep  England  in  order.  If  you  will  read  the 
lecture  on  the  life  of  Sir  Herbert  Edwardes,  which  I  hope  to 
give  in  London  after  finishing  this  course,*  you  will  see  how 
a  Christian  British  officer  can,  and  does,  verily,  and  with  his 
whole  heart,  keep  in  order  such  part  of  India  as  may  be  en- 

*  This  was  prevented  by  the  necessity  for  the  re-arrangement  of  my 
terminal  Oxford  lectures  :  I  am  now  preparing  that  on  Sir  Herbert  for 
publication  in  a  somewhat  expanded  form. 


428 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


trusted  to  him,  and  in  so  doing,  secure  our  Empire.  But  th« 
silent  feeling  and  practice  of  the  nation  about  India  is  based 
on  quite  other  motives  than  Sir  Herbert's.  Every  mutiny, 
every  danger,  every  terror,  and  every  crime,  occurring  under, 
or  paralyzing,  our  Indian  legislation,  arises  directly  out  of  our 
national  desire  to  live  on  the  loot  of  India,  and  the  notion 
always  entertained  by  English  young  gentlemen  and  ladies  of 
good  position,  failing  in  love  with  each  other  without  imme- 
diate prospect  of  establishment  in  Belgrave  Square,  that  they 
can  find  in  India,  instantly  on  landing,  a  bungalow  ready  fur- 
nished with  the  loveliest  fans,  china,  and  shawls, — ices  and 
sherbet  at  command,  —  four-and-twenty  slaves  succeeding 
each  other  hourly  to  swing  the  punkah,  and  a  regiment  with 
a  beautiful  band  to  Si  keep  order "  outside,  all  round  the 
house. 

Entreating  your  pardon  for  what  may  seem  rude  in  these 
personal  remarks,  I  wall  further  entreat  you  to  read  my  ac- 
count of  the  death  of  Cceur  de  Lion  in  the  third  number  of 
( Fors  Clavigera  ' — and  also  the  scenes  in  '  Ivanhoe  '  between 
Coeur  de  Lion  and  Locksley  ;  and  commending  these  few  pas- 
sages to  your  quiet  consideration,  I  proceed  to  give  you 
another  anecdote  or  twro  of  the  Normans  in  Italy,  twelve  years 
later  than  those  given  above,  and,  therefore,  only  thirteen 
years  before  the  battle  of  Hastings. 

Their  division  of  South  Italy  among  them  especially,  and 
their  defeat  of  Venice,  had  alarmed  everybody  considerably, — 
especially  the  Pope,  Leo  IX.,  who  did  not  understand  this 
manifestation  of  their  piety.  He  sent  to  Henry  III.  of  Ger- 
many, to  whom  he  owed  his  Popedom,  for  some  German 
knights,  and  got  five  hundred  spears ;  gathered  out  of  all 
Apulia,  Campania,  and  the  March  of  Ancona,  what  Greek  and 
Latin  troops  were  to  be  had,  to  join  his  own  army  of  the  patri- 
mony of  St.  Peter ;  and  the  holy  Pontiff,  with  this  numerous 
army,  but  no  general,  began  the  campaign  by  a  pilgrimage 
with  all  his  troops  to  Monte  Cassino,  in  order  to  obtain,  if  it 
might  be,  St.  Benedict  for  general. 

Against  the  Pope's  collected  masses,  with  St.  Benedict,  their 
contemplative  but  at  first  inactive  general,  stood  the  little 


TEE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


429 


army  of  Normans,— certainly  not  more  than  the  third  of  their 
number — but  with  Robert  Guiscarcl  for  captain,  and  under 
him  his  brother,  Humphrey  of  Hauteville,  and  Richard  of 
Aversa.  Not  in  fear,  but  in  devotion,  they  prayed  the  Pope 
'  avec  instance,' — to  say  on  what  conditions  they  could  appease 
his  anger,  and  live  in  peace  under  him.  But  the  Pope  would 
hear  of  nothing  but  their  evacuation  of  Italy.  Whereupon, 
they  had  to  settle  the  question  in  the  Norman  manner. 

The  two  armies  met  in  front  of  Civitella,  on  Waterloo  day, 
18th  June,  thirteen  years,  as  I  said,  before  the  battle  of  Hast- 
ings. The  German  knights  wrere  the  heart  of  the  Pope's  army, 
but  they  were  only  five  hundred ;  the  Normans  surrounded 
them  first,  and  slew  them,  nearly  to  a  man — and  then  made 
extremely  short  work  with  the  Italians  and  Greeks.  The  Pope, 
with  the  wreck  of  them,  fled  into  Civitella  ;  but  the  towns- 
people dared  not  defend  their  walls,  and  thrust  the  Pope  him- 
self out  of  their  gates — to  meet,  alone,  the  Norman  army. 

He  met  it,  not  alone,  St.  Benedict  being  with  him  now,  wThen 
he  had  no  longer  the  strength  of  man  to  trust  in. 

The  Normans,  as  they  approached  him,  threw  themselves 
on  their  knees, — covered  themselves  with  dust,  and  implored 
his  pardon  and  his  blessing. 

There  is  a  bit  of  poetry — if  you  like, — but  a  piece  of  steel- 
clad  fact  also,  compared  to  which  the  battle  of  Hastings  and 
Wraterloo  both,  were  mere  boy's  squabbles. 

You  don't  suppose,  you  British  schoolboys,  that  you  over- 
threw Napoleon — you  f  Your  prime  Minister  folded  up  the 
map  of  Europe  at  the  thought  of  him.  Not  you,  but  the 
snows  of  Heaven,  and  the  hand  of  Him  who  dasheth  in 
pieces  with  a  rod  of  iron.  He  casteth  forth  His  ice  like 
morsels, — who  can  stand  before  His  cold  ? 

Bat,  so  far  as  you  have  indeed  the  right  to  trust  in  the 
courage  of  your  own  hearts,  remember  also — it  is  not  in  Nor- 
man nor  Saxon,  but  in  Celtic  race  that  your  real  strength  lies. 
The  battles  both  of  Waterloo  and  Alma  were  won  by  Irish 
and  Scots — by  the  terrible  Scots  Greys,  and  by  Sir  Colin's 
Highlanders.  Your  'thin  red  line,'  was  kept  steady  at  Alma 
only  by  Colonel  Yea's  swearing  at  them. 


430 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


But  the  old  Pope,  alone  against  a  Norman  army,  wanted 
nobody  to  swear  at  him.  Steady  enough  he,  having  some- 
body to  bless  him,  instead  of  swear  at  him.  St.  Benedict, 
namely  ;  whose  (memory  shall  we  say  ?)  helped  him  now  at 
his  pinch  in  a  singular  manner, — for  the  Normans,  having 
got  the  old  man's  forgiveness,  vowed  themselves  his  feudal 
servants  ;  and  for  seven  centuries  afterwards  the  whole  king- 
dom of  Naples  remained  a  fief  of  St.  Peter, — won  for  him 
thus  by  a  single  man,  unarmed,  against  three  thousand  Nor- 
man knights,  captained  by  Robert  Guiscard  ! 

A  day  of  deeds,  gentlemen,  to  some  purpose, — that  18th  of 
June,  anyhow. 

Here,  in  the  historical  account  of  Norman  character,  I 
must  unwillingly  stop  for  to-day — because,  as  you  choose 
to  spend  your  University  money  in  building  ball-rooms  in- 
stead of  lecture-rooms,  I  dare  not  keep  you  much  longer  in 
this  black  hole,  with  its  nineteenth  century  ventilation.  I 
try  your  patience — and  tax  your  breath — only  for  a  few  min- 
utes more  in  drawing  the  necessary  corollaries  respecting 
Norman  art.* 

How  far  the  existing  British  nation  owes  its  military  prow- 
ess to  the  blood  of  Normandy  and  Anjou,  I  have  never  exam- 
ined its  genealogy  enough  to  tell  you ; — but  this  I  can  tell 
you  positively,  that  whatever  constitutional  order  or  personal 
valour  the  Normans  enforced  or  taught  among  the  nations 
they  conquered,  they  did  not  at  first  attempt  with  their  own 
hands  to  rival  them  in  any  of  their  finer  arts,  but  used  both 
Greek  and  Saxon  sculptors,  either  as  slaves,  or  hired  workmen, 
and  more  or  less  therefore  chilled  and  degraded  the  hearts  of 
the  men  thus  set  to  servile,  or  at  best,  hireling,  labour. 

In  1874,  I  went  to  see  Etna,  Scylla,  Charybdis,  and  the 
tombs  of  the  Norman  Kings  at  Palermo ;  surprised,  as  you 

*  Given  at  much  greater  length  in  the  lecture,  with  diagrams  from 
Iffley  and  Poictiers,  without  which  the  text  of  them  would  be  unintelli- 
gible. The  sum  of  what  I  said  was  a  strong  assertion  of  the  incapacity 
of  the  Normans  for  any  but  the  rudest  and  most  grotesque  sculpture,— 
Poictiers  being,  on  the  contrary,  examined  and  praised  as  Gallic-French 
— not  Norman. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  DEED. 


431 


may  imagine,  to  find  that  there  wasn't  a  stroke  nor  a  notion 
of  Norman  work  in  them.  They  are,  every  atom,  done  by 
Greeks,  and  are  as  pure  Greek  as  the  temple  of  iEgina  ;  but 
more  rich  and  refined.  I  drew  with  accurate  care,  and  with 
measured  profile  of  every  moulding,  the  tomb  built  for  Roger 
II.  (afterwards  Frederick  II.  was  laid  in  its  dark  porphyry). 
And  it  is  a  perfect  type  of  the  Greek-Christian  form  of  tomb 
— temple  over  sarcophagus,  in  which  the  pediments  rise 
gradually,  as  time  goes  on,  into  acute  angles — get  pierced  in 
the  gable  with  foils,  and  their  sculptures  thrown  outside  on 
their  flanks,  and  become  at  last  in  the  fourteenth  century,  the 
tombs  of  Verona.  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  Normans 
employing  these  Greek  slaves  for  their  work  in  Sicily  (within 
thirty  miles  of  the  field  of  Himera)  ?  Well,  the  main  meaning 
is  that  though  the  Normans  could  build,  they  couldn't  carve,  and 
were  wise  enough  not  to  try  to,  when  they  couldn't,  as  you  do 
now  all  over  this  intensely  comic  and  tragic  town  :  but,  here 
in  England,  they  only  employed  the  Saxon  with  a  grudge, 
and  therefore  being  more  and  more  driven  to  use  barren 
mouldings  without  sculpture,  gradually  developed  the  struct- 
ural forms  of  archivolt,  which  breaking  into  the  lancet, 
brighten  and  balance  themselves  into  the  symmetry  of  early 
English  Gothic. 

But  even  for  the  first  decoration  of  the  archivolt  itself,  they 
were  probably  indebted  to  the  Greeks  in  a  degree  I  never 
apprehended,  until  by  pure  happy  chance,  a  friend  gave  me 
the  clue  to  it  just  as  I  was  writing  the  last  pages  of  this  lect- 
ure. 

In  the  generalization  of  ornament  attempted  in  the  first 
volume  of  the  '  Stones  of  Venice/  I  supposed  the  Norman 
zigzag  (and  with  some  practical  truth)  to  be  derived  from 
the  angular  notches  with  which  the  blow  of  an  axe  can  most 
easily  decorate,  or  at  least  vary,  the  solid  edge  of  a  square 
fillet.  My  good  friend,  and  supporter,  and  for  some  time 
back  the  single  trustee  of  St.  George's  Guild,  Mr.  George 
Baker,  having  come  to  Oxford  on  Guild  business,  I  happened 
to  show  him  the  photographs  of  the  front  of  Iffley  church, 
which  had  been  collected  for  this  lecture  ;  and  immediately 


432 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ENGLAND. 


afterwards,  in  taking  him  through  the  schools,  stopped  to 
show  him  the  Athena  of  iEgina  as  one  of  the  most  important 
of  the  Greek  examples  lately  obtained  for  us  by  Professor 
Kichmond.  The  statue  is  (rightly)  so  placed  that  in  looking 
up  to  it,  the  plait  of  hair  across  the  forehead  is  seen  in  a 
steeply  curved  arch.  "  Why,"  says  Mr.  Baker,  pointing  to  it, 
"  there's  the  Norman  arch  of  Iffly."  Sure  enough,  there  it 
exactly  was  :  and  a  moment's  reflection  showed  me  how  easily 
and  with  what  instinctive  fitness,  the  Norman  builders,  look- 
ing to  the  Greeks  as  their  absolute  masters  in  sculpture,  and 
recognizing  also,  during  the  Crusades,  the  hieroglyphic  use 
of  the  zigzag,  for  water,  by  the  Egyptians,  might  have  adopted 
this  easily  attained  decoration  at  once  as  the  sign  of  the  ele- 
ment over  which  they  reigned,  and  of  the  power  of  the  Greek 
goddess  who  ruled  both  it  and  them. 

I  do  not  in  the  least  press  your  acceptance  of  such  a  tra- 
dition, nor  for  the  rest,  do  I  care  myself  whence  any  method 
of  ornament  is  derived,  if  only,  as  a  stranger,  you  bid  it  rever- 
ent welcome.  But  much  probability  is  added  to  the  conject- 
ure by  the  indisputable  transition  of  the  Greek  egg  and  arrow 
moulding  into  the  floral  cornices  of  Saxon  and  other  twelfth 
century  cathedrals  in  Central  France.  These  and  other  such 
transitions  and  exaltations  I  will  give  you  the  materials  to 
study  at  your  leisure,  after  illustrating  in  my  next  lecture  the 
forces  of  religious  imagination  by  which  all  that  was  most 
beautiful  in  them  was  inspired. 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE 

BEING 

SIMPLE  STUDIES  OF  CHRISTIAN  ART  FOR  ENGLISH 
TRAVELLERS 


CONTENTS. 

MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 

PAGE 

Preface,      ........  3 

THE  FIRST  MORNING. 
Santa  Croce,  5 

THE  SECOND  MORNING. 
The  Golden  Gate,  .         .  .         .         ,  ,19 

THE  THIRD  MORNING. 
Before  the  Soldan,  .         .         .         .         .         ,         .  36 

THE  FOURTH  MORNING. 
The  Vaulted  Book,         ......  61 

THE  FIFTH  MORNING. 
The  Strait  Gate,       .         .         .         .         .         ,  .77 

THE  SIXTH  MORNING. 
The  Shepherd's  Tower,  ,         ,         ,         1         •  98 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


Preface,  .         .         .         .         .         .         »         (  123 

LETTER  I.— Co  operation. 

The  two  kinds  of  Co-operation — In  its  highest  sense  it  is 

not  yet  thought  of,   .         .         .         .         .  1 25 

LETTER  II.— Contentment. 

Cooperation,  as  hitherto   understood,   is  perhaps  not 
expedient,   .         .         .         .         ,         .         .  128 

LETTER  III.— Legislation. 

Of  true  Legislation.    That  every  Man  may  be  a  Law  to 
himself,  ........  131 

LETTER  IV.— Expenditure. 
The  Expenses  for  Art  and  for  War,         .         .         ..  135 

LETTER  V. — Entertainment. 

The  Corruption  of  Modern  Pleasure. — (Covent  Garden 
Pantomime.)      .......  137 

LETTER  VL— Dexterity. 


The  Corruption  of  Modern  Pleasure. — (The  Japanese  Jug- 
glers.)    "  .         .         .         .         .  141 


LETTER  VII.— Festivity. 

TAGE 

Of  the  various  Expressions  of  National  Festivity,         .  143 
LETTER  VIII.— Things  Written. 

The  Four  possible  Theories  respecting  the  Authority  of 
the  Bible,    ......  145 

LETTER  IX.— Thanksgiving. 

The  Use  of  Music  and  Dancing  under  the  Jewish  Theoc- 
racy, COMPARED  WITH  THEIR  USE  BY  THE  MODERN  FRENCH,  I49 

LETTER  X.— Wheat-Sifting. 

The  Meaning,  and  actual  Operation,  of  Satanic  or  Demon- 
iacal Influence,    .         .         •         .         .         .  155 

LETTER  XL— The  Golden  Bough. 

The  Satanic  Power  is  mainly  Twofold  :  the  Power  of 
causing  Falsehood  and  the  Power  of  causing  Pain. 
The  Resistance  is  by  Law  of  Honour  and  Law  of  Delight,  161 

LETTER  XII.— Dictatorship. 

The  Necessity  of  Imperative  Law  to  the  Prosperity  of 
States,        .......  163 

LETTER  XIII. — Episcopacy  and  Dukedom. 

The  proper  Offices  of  the  Bishop  and  Duke;  or,  "  Over- 
seer "  and  "  Leader,"  .         .         .         .  .168 

LETTER  XIV.— Trade-Warrant. 

The  First  Group  of  Essential  Laws. — Against  Theft  by 
False  Work  and  by  Bankruptcy. — Necessary  Publicity 
of  Accounts,         ......  173 


LETTER  XV.-PER  CENTAGE. 

PAGE 

The  Nature  of  Theft  by  Unjust  Profits. — Crime  can 
finally  be  arrested  only  by  education,  .         .  176 

LETTER  XVI.— Education. 

Of  Public  Education  irrespective  of  Class  distinction.  It 
consists  essentially  in  giving  habits  of  mercy,  and 
Habits  of  Truth,  ......  181 

LETTER  XVII.— Difficulties. 

The  Relations  of  Education  to  Position  in  Life,   .         ,  187 

LETTER  XVIII.— Humility. 

The  Harmful  Effects  of  Servile  Employments.  The  Pos- 
sible Practice  and  Exhibition  of  sincere  Humility  by 
Religious  Persons,  .         .         .         .         .  190 

LETTER  XIX.— Broken  Reeds. 

The  General  Pressure  of  Excessive  and  Improper  Work,  in 

English  Life,    .......  193 

LETTER  XX.— Rose-Gardens. 

Of  Improvidence  in  Marriage  in  the  Middle  Classes;  and 
of  the  advisable  Restrictions  of  it,  ...  197 

LETTER  XXL— Gentillesse. 

Of  the  Dignity  of  the  Four  Fine  Arts  ;  and  of  the  Proper 
System  of  Retail  Trade,     .....  202 

LETTER  XXII.— The  Master. 

Of  the  normal  Position  and  Duties  of  the  Upper  Classes. 
General  Statement  of  the  Land  Question,  .  207 


LETTER  XXIII.— Landmarks. 

PAGE 

Of  the  Just  Tenure  of  Lands;  and  the  proper  Functions 
of  high  Public  Officers,      .         .         •         •  .212 

LETTER  XXIV.— The  Rod  and  Honeycomb. 

The  Office  of  the  Soldier,  .         .         .         •         •  2I9 

LETTER  XXV.— Hyssop. 


Of  inevitable  Distinction  of  Rank,  and  necessary  Sub- 
mission to  Authority.  The  Meaning  of  Pure-hearted- 
ness.   Conclusion,  ....... 


APPENDICES. 


APPENDIX  I. 

PAGE 

Expenditure  on  Science  and  Art,  ,         .  235 

APPENDIX  II. 

Legislation  of  Frederick  the  Great,  .         ,         .  236 

APPENDIX  III. 
Effect  of  Modern  Entertainments  on  the  Mind  of  Youth,  239 

APPENDIX  IV. 

Drunkenness  as  the  Cause  of  Crime,  .         .         .  240 

APPENDIX  V. 

Abuse  of  Food,  .  .         .         .         .         .  242 

APPENDIX  VI. 

Law  of  Property,   .         .  .         .         .         .  243 

APPENDIX  VII. 
Ambition  of  Bishops,    ......  244 

APPENDIX  VIII. 
Regulations  of  Trade,    .         .         .         .         .  .245 

APPENDIX  IX. 
Greatness  Coal-begotten,     .....  246 

APPENDIX  X. 

Letter  to  the  Editor  of  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette         .         .  248 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


LECTURE  I. 
Realistic  Schools  of  Painting, 

D.  G.  Rossetti  and  W.  Holtnan  Hunt. 

LECTURE  II. 

Mythic  Schools  of  Painting, 

E.  Burne-Jones  and  G.  F.  Watts. 

LECTURE  III. 

Classic  Schools  of  Painting, 

Sir  F.  Leighton  and  Alma  Tadema. 

LECTURE  IV. 

Fairy  Land, 

Mrs.  Allingham  and  Kate  Greenaivay. 

LECTURE  V. 

The  Fireside,  ...... 

John  Leech  and  John  Tenniel. 

LECTURE  VI. 

The  Hillside,  ..... 

George  Robson  and  Copley  Fielding. 

Appendix,  ...... 

Index,  ...... 

Notes  on  the  construction  of  Sheepfolds, 


PKEFACE. 


It  seems  to  me  that  the  real  duty  involved  in  my  Oxford 
professorship  cannot  be  completely  done  by  giving  lectures  in 
Oxford  only,  but  that  I  ought  also  to  give  what  guidance  I 
may  to  travellers  in  Italy. 

The  following  letters  are  written  as  I  would  write  to  any  of 
my  friends  who  asked  me  what  they  ought  preferably  to  study 
in  limited  time  ;  and  I  hope  they  may  be  found  of  use  if  read 
in  the  places  which  they  describe,  or  before  the  pictures  to 
which  they  refer.  But  in  the  outset  let  me  give  my  readers 
one  piece  of  practical  advice.  If  you  can  afford  it,  pay  yo  ur 
custode  or  sacristan  well.  You  may  think  it  an  injustice  to 
the  next  comer  ;  but  your  paying  him  ill  is  an  injustice  to  all 
comers,  for  the  necessary  result  of  your  doing  so  is  that  he 
will  lock  up  or  cover  whatever  he  can,  that  he  may  get  his 
penny  fee  for  showing  it ;  and  that,  thus  exacting  a  small  tax 
from  everybody,  he  is  thankful  to  none,  and  gets  into  a  sullen 
passion  if  you  stay  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  minute  to  look  at 
the  object  after  it  is  uncovered.  And  you  will  not  find  it  pos- 
sible to  examine  anything  properly  under  these  circumstances. 
Pay  your  sacristan  well,  and  make  friends  with  him  :  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  an  Italian  is  really  grateful  for  the  money,  and 
more  than  grateful  for  human  courtesy  ;  and  will  give  you 
some  true  zeal  and  kindly  feeling  in  return  for  a  franc  and  a 
pleasant  look.  How  very  horrid  of  him  to  be  grateful  for 
money,  you  think  !  Well,  I  can  only  tell  you  that  I  know 
fifty  people  who  will  write  me  letters  full  of  tender  sentiment, 
for  one  who  will  give  me  tenpence  ;  and  I  shall  be  very  much 
obliged  to  you  if  you  will  give  me  tenpence  for  each  of  these 
letters  of  mine,  though  I  have  done  more  work  than  you  know 
of,  to  make  them  good  ten-pennyworths  to  you, 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


THE  FIRST  MORNING. 

SANTA  CROCE. 

If  there  is  one  artist,  more  than  another,  whose  work  it  is 
desirable  that  you  should  examine  in  Florence,  supposing 
that  you  care  for  old  art  at  all,  it  is  Giotto.  You  can,  indeed, 
also  see  work  of  his  at  Assisi ;  but  it  is  not  likely  you  will 
stop  there,  to  any  purpose.  At  Padua  there  is  much ;  but 
only  of  one  period.  At  Florence,  which  is  his  birthplace,  you 
can  see  pictures  by  him  of  every  date,  and  every  kind.  But 
you  had  surely  better  see,  first,  what  is  of  his  best  time  and 
of  the  best  kind.  He  painted  very  small  pictures  and  very 
large — painted  from  the  age  of  twelve  to  sixty — painted  some 
subjects  carelessly  which  he  had  little  interest  in — some  care- 
fully with  all  his  heart.  You  would  surely  like,  and  it  would 
certainly  be  wise,  to  see  him  first  in  his  strong  and  earnest 
work, — to  see  a  painting  by  him,  if  possible,  of  large  size, 
and  wrought  with  his  full  strength,  and  of  a  subject  pleasing 
to  him.  And  if  it  were,  also,  a  subject  interesting  to  your- 
self,— better  still. 

Now,  if  indeed  you  are  interested  in  old  art,  you  cannot 
but  know  the  power  of  the  thirteenth  century.  You  know 
that  the  character  of  it  was  concentrated  in,  and  to  the  full 
expressed  by,  its  best  king,  St.  Louis.  You  know  St.  Louis  was 
a  Franciscan,  and  that  the  Franciscans,  for  whom  Giotto  was 
continually  painting  under  Dante's  advice,  were  prouder  of  him 
than  of  any  other  of  their  royal  brethren  or  sisters.  If  Giotto 
ever  would  imagine  anybody  with  care  and  delight,  it  would 


6 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


be  St.  Louis,  if  it  chanced  that  anywhere  he  had  St,  Louis  to 
paint. 

Also,  you  know  that  he  was  appointed  to  build  the  Cam- 
panile of  the  Duorno,  because  he  was  then  the  best  master 
of  sculpture,  painting,  and  architecture  in  Florence,  and  sup- 
posed to  be  without  superior  in  the  world.1  And  that  this 
commission  was  given  him  late  in  life,  (of  course  he  could  not 
have  designed  the  Campanile  when  he  was  a  boy ;)  so  there- 
fore, if  you  find  any  of  his  figures  painted  under  pure  cam- 
panile architecture,  and  the  architecture  by  his  hand,  you 
know,  without  other  evidence,  that  the  painting  must  be  of 
his  strongest  time. 

So  if  one  wanted  to  find  anything  of  his  to  begin  with,  es- 
pecially, and  could  choose  what  it  should  be,  one  would  say, 
"A  fresco,  life  size,  with  campanile  architecture  behind  it, 
painted  in  an  important  place  ;  and  if  one  might  choose  one's 
subject,  perhaps  the  most  interesting  saint  of  all  saints — for 
him  to  do  for  us — would  be  St.  Louis." 

Wait  then  for  an  entirely  bright  morning  ;  rise  with  the 
sun,  and  go  to  Santa  Croce,  with  a  good  opera-glass  in  your 
pocket,  with  which  you  shall  for  once,  at  any  rate,  see  an 
opus  ;  and,  if  you  have  time,  several  opera.  Walk  straight 
to  the  chapel  on  the  right  of  the  choir  ("  k  "  in  your  Murray's 
guide).  When  you  first  get  into  it,  you  will  see  nothing  but 
a  modern  window  of  glaring  glass,  with  a  red-hot  cardinal  in 
one  pane — which  piece  of  modern  manufacture  takes  away  at 
least  seven-eighths  of  the  light  (little  enough  before)  by  which 
you  might  have  seen  what  is  worth  sight.  Wait  patiently  till 
you  get  used  to  the  gloom.  Then,  guarding  your  eyes  from 
the  accursed  modern  window  as  best  you  may,  take  your 
opera- glass  and  look  to  the  right,  at  the  uppermost  of  the 
two  figures  beside  it.  It  is  St.  Louis,  under  campanile  archi- 
tecture, painted  by — Giotto  ?  or  the  last  Florentine  painter 
who  wanted  a  job — over  Giotto  ?    That  is  the  first  question 

1  11  Cum  in  uni verso  orbe  non  reperiri  dicatur  quenquam  qui  sufficien- 
tior  sit  in  his  et  aliis  multis  artibus  magistro  Giotto  Bondonis  de  Flo- 
rentia,  pictore,  et  accipiendus  sit  in  patria,  velut  magnns  magister." 
— (Decree  of  his  appointment,  quoted  by  Lord  Lindsay,  vol-,  ii.,  p.  24.7. } 


SANTA  CROCK 


7 


you  have  to  determine  ;  as  you  will  have  henceforward,  in 
every  case  in  which  you  look  at  a  fresco. 

Sometimes  there  will  be  no  question  at  all.  These  two 
grey  frescos  at  the  bottom  of  the  walls  on  the  right  and  left, 
for  instance,  have  been  entirely  got  up  for  your  better  satis- 
faction, in  the  last  year  or  two — over  Giotto's  half-effaced 
lines.  But  that  St.  Louis  ?  Ke-painted  or  not,  it  is  a  lovely 
thing, — there  can  be  no  question  about  that ;  and  we  must 
look  at  it,  after  some  preliminary  knowledge  gained,  not  inat- 
tentively. 

Your  Murray's  Guide  tells  you  that  this  chapel  of  the  Bardi 
della  Liberta,  in  which  you  stand,  is  covered  with  frescos  by 
Giotto  ;  that  they  wrere  whitewashed,  and  only  laid  bare  in 
1853  ;  that  they  were  painted  between  1296  and  1304 ;  that 
they  represent  scenes  in  the  life  of  St.  Francis  ;  and  that  on 
each  side  of  the  window  are  paintings  of  St.  Louis  of  Tou- 
louse, St.  Louis  king  of  France,  St.  Elizabeth,  of  Hungary, 
and  St.  Claire, — "all  much  restored  and  repainted."  Under 
such  recommendation,  the  frescos  are  not  likely  to  be  much 
sought  after  ;  and  accordingly,  as  I  was  at  work  in  the  chapel 
this  morning,  Sunday,  6th  September,  1874,  two  nice-looking 
Englishmen,  under  guard  of  their  valet  de  place,  passed  the 
chapel  without  so  much  as  looking  in. 

You  will  perhaps  stay  a  little  longer  in  it  with  me,  good 
reader,  and  find  out  gradually  where  you  are.  Namely,  in 
the  most  interesting  and  perfect  little  Gothic  chapel  in  all 
Italy— so  far  as  I  know  or  can  hear.  There  is  no  other  of  the 
great  time  which  has  all  its  frescos  in  their  place.  The  Arena, 
though  far  larger,  is  of  earlier  date — not  pure  Gothic,  nor 
showing  Giotto's  full  force.  The  lower  chapel  at  Assisi  is  not 
Gothic  at  all,  and  is  still  only  of  Giotto's  middle  time.  You 
have  here,  developed  Gothic,  with  Giotto  in  his  consummate 
strength,  and  nothing  lost,  in  form,  of  the  complete  design. 

By  restoration — judicious  restoration,  as  Mr.  Murray  usu- 
ally calls  it — there  is  no  saying  how  much  you  have  lost. 
Putting  the  question  of  restoration  out  of  your  mind,  how- 
ever, for  a  while,  think  where  you  are,  and  what  you  have  got 
to  look  at. 


8 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


You  are  in  the  chapel  next  the  high  altar  of  the  great  Fran, 
ciscan  church  of  Florence.  A  few  hundred  yards  west  of  you, 
within  ten  minutes'  walk,  is  the  Baptistery  of  Florence.  And 
five  minutes'  walk  west  of  that  is  the  great  Dominican  church 
of  Florence,  Santa  Maria  Novella, 

Get  this  little  bit  of  geography,  and  architectural  fact,  well 
into  your  mind.  There  is  the  little  octagon  Baptistery  in  the 
middle ;  here,  ten  minutes'  walk  east  of  it,  the  Franciscan 
church  of  the  Holy  Cross  ;  there,  five  minutes  walk  west  of  it, 
the  Dominican  church  of  St.  Mary. 

Now,  that  little  octagon  Baptistery  stood  where  it  now 
stands  (and  was  finished,  though  the  roof  has  been  altered 
since)  in  the  eighth  century.  It  is  the  central  building  of 
Etrurian  Christianity, — of  European  Christianity. 

From  the  day  it  was  finished,  Christianity  went  on  doing 
her  best,  in  Etruria  and  elsewhere,  for  four  hundred  years, — 
and  her  best  seemed  to  have  come  to  very  little, — when  there 
rose  up  two  men  who  vowed  to  God  it  should  come  to  more 
And  they  made  it  come  to  more,  forthwith  ;  of  which  the  im- 
mediate sign  in  Florence  was  that  she  resolved  to  have  a  fine 
new  cross-shaped  cathedral  instead  of  her  quaint  old  little 
octagon  one  ;  and  a  tower  beside  it  that  should  beat  Babel : — 
which  two  buildings  you  have  also  within  sight. 

But  your  business  is  not  at  present  with  them  ;  but  with 
these  two  earlier  churches  of  Holy  Cross  and  St.  Mary.  The 
two  men  who  were  the  effectual  builders  of  these  were  the  two 
great  religious  Powers  and  Reformers  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury ; — St,  Francis,  who  taught  Christian  men  how  they  should 
behave,  and  St.  Dominic,  who  taught  Christian  men  what  they 
should  think.  In  brief,  one  the  Apostle  of  Works  ;  the  other 
of  Faith.  Each  sent  his  little  company  of  disciples  to  teach 
and  to  preach  in  Florence :  St.  Francis  in  1212  ;  St.  Dominic 
in  1220. 

The  little  companies  were  settled — one,  ten  minutes'  walk 
east  of  the  old  Baptistery  ;  the  other  five  minutes'  walk  west 
of  it.  And  after  they  had  stayed  quietly  in  such  lodgings  as 
were  given  them,  preaching  and  teaching  through  most  of  the 
century ;  and  had  got  Florence,  as  it  were,  heated  through, 


SANTA  CEO  CM 


9 


she  burst  out  into  Christian  poetry  and  architecture,  of  which 
you  have  heard  much  talk  : — burst  into  bloom  of  Arnolfo, 
Giotto,  Dante,  Orcagna,  and  the  like  persons,  whose  works  you 
profess  to  have  come  to  Florence  that  you  may  see  and  under- 
stand. 

Florence  then,  thus  heated  through,  first  helped  her  teachers 
to  build  finer  churches.  The  Dominicans,  or  White  Friars, 
the  Teachers  of  Faith,  began  their  church  of  St.  Mary's  in 
1279.  The  Franciscans,  or  Black  Friars,  the  teachers  ol 
Works,  laid  the  first  stone  of  this  church  of  the  Holy  Cross  in 
1294.  And  the  whole  city  laid  the  foundations  of  its  new 
cathedral  in  1298.  The  Dominicans  designed  their  own 
building  ;  but  for  the  Franciscans  and  the  town  worked  the 
first  great  master  of  Gothic  art,  Arnolfo  ;  with  Giotto  at  his 
side,  and  Dante  looking  on,  and  whispering  sometimes  a  word 
to  both. 

And  here  you  stand  beside  the  high  altar  of  the  Franciscans' 
church,  under  a  vault  of  Arnolfo's  building,  with  at  least  some 
of  Giotto's  colour  on  it  still  fresh  ;  and  in  front  of  you,  over 
the  little  altar,  is  the  only  reportedly  authentic  portrait  of  St. 
Francis,  taken  from  life  by  Giotto's  master.  Yet  I  can  hardly 
blame  my  two  English  friends  for  never  looking  in.  Except 
in  the  early  morning  light,  not  one  touch  of  all  this  art  can 
be  seen.  And  in  any  light,  unless  you  understand  the  rela- 
tions of  Giotto  to  St.  Francis,  and  of  St.  Francis  to  humanity, 
it  will  be  of  little  interest. 

Observe,  then,  the  special  character  of  Giotto  among  the 
great  painters  of  Italy  is  his  being  a  practical  person.  What- 
ever other  men  dreamed  of,  he  did.  He  could  work  in 
mosaic  ;  he  could  work  in  marble  ;  he  could  paint ;  and  he 
could  build  ;  and  all  thoroughly  :  a  man  of  supreme  faculty, 
supreme  common  sense,  xiccordingly,  he  ranges  himself  at 
once  among  the  disciples  of  the  Apostle  of  Works,  and  spends 
most  of  his  time  in  the  same  apostleship. 

Now  the  gospel  of  Works,  according  to  St.  Francis,  lay  in 
three  things.  You  must  work  without  money,  and  be  poor. 
You  must  work  without  pleasure,  and  be  chaste.  You  must 
work  according  to  orders,  and  be  obedient. 


10 


MORNINGS  IJS  FLORENCE. 


Those  are  St.  Francis's  three  articles  of  Italian  opera.  By 
which  grew  the  many  pretty  things  you  have  come  to  see 
here. 

And  now  if  you  will  take  your  opera-glass  and  look  up  to 
the  roof  above  Arnolfo's  building,  you  will  see  it  is  a  pretty 
Gothic  cross  vault,  in  four  quarters,  each  with  a  circular 
medallion,  painted  by  Giotto.  That  over  the  altar  has  the 
picture  of  St.  Francis  himself.  The  three  others,  of  his  Com- 
manding Angels.  In  front  of  him,  over  the  entrance  arch, 
Poverty.  On  his  right  hand,  Obedience.  On  his  left, 
Chastity. 

Poverty,  in  a  red  patched  dress,  with  grey  wings,  and  a 
square  nimbus  of  glory  above  her  head,  is  flying  from  a  black 
hound,  whose  head  is  seen  at  the  corner  of  the  medallion. 

Chastity,  veiled,  is  imprisoned  in  a  tower,  while  angels 
watch  her. 

Obedience  bears  a  yoke  on  her  shoulders,  and  lays  her 
hand  on  a  book. 

Now,  this  same  quatrefoil,  of  St.  Francis  and  his  three 
Commanding  Angels,  was  also  painted,  but  much  more  elab- 
orately, by  Giotto,  on  the  cross  vault  of  the  lower  church  of 
Assisi,  and  it  is  a  question  of  interest  which  of  the  two  roofs 
was  painted  first. 

Your  Murray's  Guide  tells  you  the  frescos  in  this  chapel 
were  painted  between  1296  and  1304.  But  as  they  represent, 
among  other  personages,  St.  Louis  of  Toulouse,  who  was  not 
canonized  till  1317,  that  statement  is  not  altogether  tenable. 
Also,  as  the  first  stone  of  the  church  was  only  laid  in  1294, 
when  Giotto  was  a  youth  of  eighteen,  it  is  little  likely  that 
either  it  would  have  been  ready  to  be  painted,  or  he  ready 
with  his  scheme  of  practical  divinity,  two  years  later. 

Farther,  Arnolfo,  the  builder  of  the  main  body  of  the 
church,  died  in  1310.  And  as  St.  Louis  of  Toulouse  was  not 
a  saint  till  seven  years  afterwards,  and  the  frescos  therefore 
beside  the  window  not  painted  in  Arnolfo's  day,  it  becomes 
another  question  whether  Arnolfo  left  the  chapels  or  the 
church  at  all,  in  their  present  form. 

On  which  point — now  that  I  have  shown  you  where  Giotto's 


SANTA  CROCE. 


11 


St.  Louis  is — I  will  ask  you  to  think  awhile,  until  you  are  in- 
terested ;  and  then  I  wdll  try  to  satisfy  your  curiosity.  There  - 
fore,  please  leave  the  little  chapel  for  the  moment,  and  walk 
down  the  nave,  till  you  come  to  two  sepulchral  slabs  near  the 
west  end,  and  then  look  about  you  and  see  what  sort  of  a 
church  Santa  Croce  is. 

Without  looking  about  you  at  all,  you  may  find,  in  your 
Murray,  the  useful  information  that  it  is  a  church  which 
"  consists  of  a  very  wide  nave  and  lateral  aisles,  separated  by 
seven  fine  pointed  arches."  And  as  you  will  be — under  ordi- 
nary conditions  of  tourist  hurry — glad  to  learn  so  much,  with* 
out  looking,  it  is  little  likely  to  occur  to  you  that  this  nave  and 
two  rich  aisles  required  also,  for  your  complete  present  com- 
fort, walls  at  both  ends,  and  a  roof  on  the  top.  It  is  just  pos- 
sible, indeed,  you  may  have  been  struck,  on  entering,  by  the 
curious  disposition  of  painted  glass  at  the  east  end  ; — more 
remotely  possible  that,  in  returning  down  the  nave,  you  may 
this  moment  have  noticed  the  extremely  small  circular  window 
at  the  west  end  ;  but  the  chances  are  a  thousand  to  one  that, 
after  being  pulled  from  tomb  to  tomb  round  the  aisles  and 
chapels,  you  should  take  so  extraordinary  an  additional  amount 
of  pains  as  to  look  up  at  the  roof, — unless  you  do  it  now, 
quietly.  It  will  have  had  its  effect  upon  you,  even  if  you 
don't,  without  your  knowledge.  You  will  return  home  with 
a  general  impression  that  Santa  Croce  is,  somehow,  the  ugliest 
Gothic  church  you  ever  were  in.  Well,  that  is  really  so ;  and 
now,  will  you  take  the  pains  to  see  why  ? 

There  are  two  features,  on  which,  more  than  on  any  others, 
the  grace  and  delight  of  a  fine  Gothic  building  depends  ;  one 
is  the  springing  of  its  vaultings,  the  other  the  proportion  and 
fantasy  of  its  traceries.  This  church  of  Santa  Croce  has  no 
vaultings  at  all,  but  the  roof  of  a  farm-house  barn.  And  its 
windows  are  all  of  the  same  pattern, — the  exceedingly  prosaic 
one  of  two  pointed  arches,  with  a  round  hole  above,  between 
them. 

And  to  make  the  simplicity  of  the  roof  more  conspicuous, 
the  aisles  are  successive  sheds,  built  at  every  arch.  In  the 
aisles  of  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisco,  the  unbroken  flat  roof 


12 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


leaves  the  eye  free  io  look  to  the  traceries  ;  but  here,  a  suc- 
cession of  up-and-down  sloping  beam  and  lath  gives  the  im- 
pression of  a  line  of  stabling  rather  than  a  church  aisle.  And 
lastly,  while,  in  fine  Gothic  buildings,  the  entire  perspective 
concludes  itself  gloriously  in  the  high  and  distant  apse,  here 
the  nave  is  cut  across  sharply  by  a  line  of  ten  chapels,  the 
apse  being  only  a  tall  recess  in  the  midst  of  them,  so  that, 
strictly  speaking,  the  church  is  not  of  the  form  of  a  cross,  but 
of  a  letter  T. 

Can  this  clumsy  and  ungraceful  arrangement  be  indeed  the 
design  of  the  renowned  Arnolfo  ? 

Yes,  this  is  purest  Arnolfo-Gothic  ;  not  beautiful  by  any 
means  ;  but  deserving,  nevertheless,  our  thoughtfullest  exam- 
ination. "We  will  trace  its  complete  character  another  day  ; 
just  now  we  are  only  concerned  with  this  pre-Christian  form  of 
the  letter  T,  insisted  upon  in  the  lines  of  chapels. 

Respecting  which  you  are  to  observe,  that  the  first  Christian 
churches  in  the  catacombs  took  the  form  of  a  blunt  cross  nat- 
urally ;  a  square  chamber  having  a  vaulted  recess  on  each  side  ; 
then  the  Byzantine  churches  were  structurally  built  in  the  form 
of  an  equal  cross  ;  while  the  heraldic  and  other  ornamental 
equal-armed  crosses  are  partly  signs  of  glory  and  victory, 
partly  of  light,  and  divine  spiritual  presence.1 

But  the  Franciscans  and  Dominicans  saw  in  the  cross  no 
sign  of  triumph,  but  of  trial.2    The  wounds  of  their  Master 

1  See,  on  this  subject  generally,  Mr.  R.  St.  J.  Tyrwhitt's  11  Art-Teach- 
ing of  the  Primitive  Church."    S.  P.  B.  K.,  1874. 

'2  I  have  never  obtained  time  for  any  right  study  of  early  Christian 
church-discipline, — nor  am  I  sure  to  how  many  other  causes,  the  choice 
of  the  form  of  the  basilica  may  be  occasionally  attributed,  or  by  what 
other  communities  it  may  be  made.  Symbolism,  for  instance,  has  most 
power  with  the  Franciscans,  and  convenience  for  preaching  with  the 
.Dominicans  ;  but  in  all  cases,  and  in  all  places,  the  transition  from  the 
close  tribune  to  the  brightly-lighted  apse,  indicates  the  change  in  Chris- 
tian feeling  between  regarding  a  church  as  a  place  for  public  judgment 
or  teaching,  or  a  place  for  private  prayer  and  congregational  praise.  The 
following  passage  from  the  Dean  of  Westminster's  perfect  history  of  his 
Abbey  ought  to  be  read  also  in  the  Florentine  church: — "The  nearest 
approach  to  Westminster  Abbey  in  this  aspect  is  the  church  of  Santa 


SANTA  CROGE. 


13 


were  to  be  their  inheritance.  So  their  first  aim  was  to  make 
what  image  to  the  cross  their  church  might  present,  distinctly 
that  of  the  actual  instrument  of  death. 

And  they  did  this  most  effectually  by  using  the  form  of  the 
letter  T,  that  of  the  Furca  or  Gibbet, — not  the  sign  of  peace. 

Also,  their  churches  were  meant  for  use  ;  not  show,  nor 
self-glorification,  nor  town-glorification.  They  wanted  places 
for  preaching,  prayer,  sacrifice,  burial  ;  and  had  no  intention 
of  showing  how  high  they  could  build  towers,  or  how  widely 
they  could  arch  vaults.  Strong  walls,  and  the  roof  of  a  barn, — 
these  your  Franciscan  asks  of  his  Arnolfo.  These  Arnolfo 
gives, — thoroughly  and  wisely  built ;  the  successions  of  gable 
roof  being  a  new  device  for  strength,  much  praised  in  its  day. 

This  stern  humor  did  not  last  long.  Arnolfo  himself  had 
other  notions  ;  much  more  Cimabue  and  Giotto  ;  most  of  all, 
Nature  and  Heaven.  Something  else  had  to  be  taught  about 
Christ  than  that  He  was  wounded  to  death.  Nevertheless, 
look  how  grand  this  stern  form  would  be,  restored  to  its  sim- 
plicity. It  is  not  the  old  church  which  is  in  itself  unimpres- 
sive. It  is  the  old  church  defaced  by  Vasari,  by  Michael  An- 
gelo,  and  by  modern  Florence.  See  those  huge  tombs  on  your 
right  hand  and  left,  at  the  sides  of  the  aisles,  with  their  alter- 

Croce  at  Florence.  There,  as  here,  the  present  destination  of  the  "build- 
ing was  no  part  of  the  original  design,  but  was  the  result  of  various  con- 
verging causes.  As  the  church  of  one  of  the  two  great  preaching  orders, 
it  had  a  nave  large  beyond  all  proportion  to  its  choir.  That  order  being 
the  Franciscan,  bound  by  vows  of  poverty,  the  simplicity  of  the  worship 
preserved  the  whole  space  clear  from  any  adventitious  ornaments.  The 
popularity  of  the  Franciscans,  especially  in  a  convent  hallowed  by  a 
visit  from  St.  Francis  himself,  drew  to  it  not  only  the  chief  civic  festi- 
vals, but  also  the  numerous  families  who  gave  alms  to  the  friars,  and 
whose  connection  with  their  church  was,  for  this  reason,  in  turn  en- 
couraged by  them.  In  those  graves,  piled  with  standards  and  achieve- 
ments of  the  noble  families  of  Florence,  were  successively  interred — not 
because  of  their  eminence,  but  as  members  or  friends  of  those  families 
—some  of  the  most  illustrious  personages  of  the  fifteenth  century.  Thus 
it  came  to  pass,  as  if  by  accident,  that  in  the  vault  of  the  Buonarotti  was 
laid  Michael  Angelo  ;  in  the  vault  of  the  Yiviani  the  preceptor  of  one  of 
their  house,  Galileo.  From  those  two  burials  the  church  gradually  be- 
came the  recognized  shrine  of  Italian  genius." 


14 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


nate  gable  and  round  tops,  and  their  paltriest  of  all  possible 
sculpture,  trying  to  be  grand  by  bigness,  and  pathetic  by  ex- 
pense. Tear  them  all  down  in  your  imagination  ;  fancy  the 
vast  hall  with  its  massive  pillars, — not  painted  calomel-pill 
colour,  as  now,  but  of  their  native  stone,  with  a  rough,  true 
wood  for  roof, — and  a  people  praying  beneath  them,  strong  in 
abiding,  and  pure  in  life,  as  their  rocks  and  olive  forests* 
That  was  Arnolfo's  Santa  Croce.  Nor  did  his  work  remain 
long  without  grace. 

That  very  line  of  chapels  in  which  we  found  our  St.  Louis 
shows  signs  of  change  in  temper.  They  have  no  pent-house 
roofs,  but  true  Gothic  vaults  :  we  found  our  four-square  type 
of  Franciscan  Law  on  one  of  them. 

It  is  probable,  then,  that  these  chapels  may  be  later  than 
the  rest — even  in  their  stonework.  In  their  decoration,  they 
are  so,  assuredly  ;  belonging  already  to  the  time  when  the 
story  of  St.  Francis  was  becoming  a  passionate  tradition,  told 
and  painted  everywhere  with  delight. 

And  that  high  recess,  taking  the  place  of  apse,  in  the  centre, 
— see  how  noble  it  is  in  the  coloured  shade  surrounding  and 
joining  the  glow  of  its  windows,  though  their  form  be  so 
simple.  You  are  not  to  be  amused  here  by  patterns  in  bal- 
anced stone,  as  a  French  or  English  architect  would  amuse 
you,  says  Arnolfo.  "  You  are  to  read  and  think,  under  these 
severe  walls  of  mine  ;  immortal  hands  wall  write  upon  them." 
We  will  go  back,  therefore,  into  this  line  of  manuscript  chap- 
els presently  ;  but  first,  look  at  the  two  sepulchral  slabs  by 
which  you  are  standing.  That  farther  of  the  two  from  the 
west  end  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  pieces  of  fourteenth 
century  sculpture  in  this  world  ;  and  it  contains  simple  ele- 
ments of  excellence,  by  your  understanding  of  which  you  may 
test  your  power  of  understanding  the  more  difficult  ones  you 
will  have  to  deal  with  presently. 

It  represents  an  old  man,  in  the  high  deeply-folded  cap 
worn  by  scholars  and  gentlemen  in  Florence  from  1300 — 1500, 
lying  dead,  with  a  book  in  his  breast,  over  which  his  hands 
are  folded.  At  his  feet  is  this  inscription  :  "  Temporibus  hie 
suis  phylosophye  atq.  medicine  culmen  fuit  Galileus  de  Gali« 


SANTA  CROCE. 


15 


leis  olim  Bonajutis  qui  etiam  summo  in  magistrate  miro  quo- 
dam  modo  rempublicam  dilexit,  cujus  sancte  memorie  bene 
acte  vite  pie  benedictus  films  hunc  tumulum  patri  sibi  suisq. 
posteris  edidit." 

Mr.  Murray  tells  you  that  the  effigies  "  in  low  relief  "  (alas, 
yes,  low  enough  now — worn  mostly  into  flat  stones,  with  a 
trace  only  of  the  deeper  lines  left,  but  originally  in  very  bold 
relief,)  with  which  the  floor  of  Santa  Croce  is  inlaid,  of  which 
this  by  which  you  stand  is  characteristic,  are  "  interesting 
from  the  costume,"  but  that,  "  except  in  the  case  of  John  Ket- 
terick,  Bishop  of  St.  David's,  few  of  the  other  names  have  any 
interest  beyond  the  walls  of  Florence."  As,  however,  you  are 
at  present  within  the  walls  of  Florence,  you  may  perhaps  con- 
descend to  take  some  interest  in  this  ancestor  or  relation  of 
the  Galileo  whom  Florence  indeed  left  to  be  externally  inter- 
esting, and  would  not  allow  to  enter  in  her  walls.1 

I  am  not  sure  if  I  rightly  place  or  construe  the  phrase  in 
the  above  inscription,  "  cujus  sancte  memorie  bene  acte ; " 
but,  in  main  purport,  the  legend  runs  thus  :  "  This  Galileo  of 
the  Galilei  was,  in  his  times,  the  head  of  philosophy  and  med- 
icine ;  who  also  in  the  highest  magistracy  loved  the  republic 
marvellously ;  whose  son,  blessed  in  inheritance  of  his  holy 
memory  and  well-passed  and  pious  life,  appointed  this  tomb 
for  his  father,  for  himself,  and  for  his  posterity." 

There  is  no  date  ;  but  the  slab  immediately  behind  it,  nearer 
the  western  door,  is  of  the  same  style,  but  of  later  and  in- 
ferior work,  and  bears  date — I  forget  now  of  what  early  year 
in  the  fifteenth  century. 

But  Florence  was  still  in  her  pride  ;  and  you  may  observe, 
in  this  epitaph,  on  what  it  was  based.  That  her  philosophy 
was  studied  together  ivith  useful  arts,  and  as  a  part  of  them  ; 
that  the  masters  in  these  became  naturally  the  masters  in  pub- 
lic affairs  ;  that  in  such  magistracy,  they  loved  the  State,  and 
neither  cringed  to  it  nor  robbed  it ;  that  the  sons  honoured 
their  fathers,  and  received  their  fathers'  honour  as  the  most 

1  M  Seven  years  a  prisoner  at  the  city  gate, 
Let  in  but  his  grave-clothes." 

Rogers'  "Italy" 


16 


MORNINGS  IN  FLO  REN  CE\ 


blessed  inheritance.  Remember  the  phrase  "  vite  pie  bene- 
dictus  Alius,"  to  be  compared  with  the  "  nos  nequiores  "  of  the 
declining  days  of  all  states, — chiefly  now  in  Florence,  France 
and  England. 

Thus  much  for  the  local  interest  of  name.  Next  for  the 
universal  interest  of  the  art  of  this  tomb. 

It  is  the  crowning  virtue  of  all  great  art  that,  however  little 
is  left  of  it  by  the  injuries  of  time,  that  little  will  be  lovely. 
As  long  as  you  can  see  anything,  you  can  see — almost  all ; — ■ 
so  much  the  hand  of  the  master  will  suggest  of  his  soul. 

And  here  you  are  well  quit,  for  once,  of  restoration.  No 
one  cares  for  this  sculpture  ;  and  if  Florence  would  only  thus 
put  all  her  old  sculpture  and  painting  under  her  feet,  and  sim- 
ply use  them  for  gravestones  and  oilcloth,  she  would  be  more 
merciful  to  them  than  she  is  now.  Here,  at  least,  what  little 
is  left  is  true. 

And,  if  you  look  long,  you  will  find  it  is  not  so  little.  That 
worn  face  is  still  a  perfect  portrait  of  the  old  man,  though 
like  one  struck  out  at  a  venture,  with  a  few  rough  touches  of 
a  master's  chisel.  And  that  falling  drapery  of  his  cap  is,  in 
its  few  lines,  faultless,  and  subtle  beyond  description. 

And  now,  here  is  a  simple  but  most  useful  test  of  your 
capacity  for  understanding  Florentine  sculpture  or  painting. 
If  you  can  see  that  the  lines  of  that  cap  are  both  right,  and 
lovely  ;  that  the  choice  of  the  folds  is  exquisite  in  its  orna- 
mental relations  of  line  ;  and  that  the  softness  and  ease  of 
them  is  complete, — though  only  sketched  with  a  few  dark 
touches, — then  you  can  understand  Giotto's  drawing,  and 
Botticelli's  ; — Donatello's  carving  and  Luca's.  But  if  you  see 
nothing  in  this  sculpture,  you  will  see  nothing  in  theirs,  of 
theirs.  Where  they  choose  to  imitate  flesh,  or  silk,  or  to  play 
any  vulgar  modern  trick  with  marble — (and  they  often  do) — ■ 
whatever,  in  a  word,  is  French,  or  American,  or  Cockney,  in 
their  work,  you  can  see  ;  but  what  is  Florentine,  and  for  ever 
great — unless  you  can  see  also  the  beauty  of  this  old  man  in 
his  citizen's  cap, — you  will  see  never. 

There  is  more  in  this  sculpture,  however,  than  its  simple 
portraiture  and  noble  drapery.    The  old  man  lies  on  a  piece 


SANTA  CROCE. 


17 


bi  embroidered  carpet ;  and,  protected  by  the  higher  relief, 
many  of  the  finer  lines  of  this  are  almost  uninjured  ;  in  par- 
ticular, its  exquisitely-wrought  fringe  and  tassels  are  nearly 
perfect.  And  if  you  "will  kneel  down  and  look  long  at  the 
tassels  of  the  cushion  under  the  head,  and  the  way  they  fill 
the  angles  of  the  stone,  you  will, — or  may — know,  from  this 
example  alone,  what  noble  decorative  sculpture  is,  and  was, 
and  must  be,  from  the  days  of  earliest  Greece  to  those  of 
latest  Italy. 

"Exquisitely  sculptured  fringe !"  and  you  have  just  been 
abusing  sculptors  who  play  tricks  with  marble  !  Yes,  and  you 
cannot  find  a  better  example,  in  all  the  museums  of  Europe, 
of  the  work  of  a  man  who  does  not  play  tricks  with  it — than 
this  tomb.  Try  to  understand  the  difference  :  it  is  a  point  of 
quite  cardinal  importance  to  all  your  future  study  of  sculp- 
ture. 

I  told  you,  observe,  that  the  old  Galileo  was  lying  on  a  piece 
of  embroidered  carpet.  I  don't  think,  if  I  had  not  told  you, 
that  you  would  have  found  it  out  for  yourself.  It  is  not  so 
like  a  carpet  as  all  that  comes  to. 

But  had  it  been  a  modern  trick-sculpture,  the  moment  you 
came  to  the  tomb  you  would  have  said,  "Dear  me  !  how  won- 
derfully that  carpet  is  done, — it  doesn't  look  like  stone  in  the 
least — one  longs  to  take  it  up  and  beat  it,  to  get  the  dust 
off." 

Now  whenever  you  feel  inclined  to  speak  so  of  a  sculptured 
drapery,  be  assured,  without  more  ado,  the  sculpture  is  base, 
and  bad.  You  will  merely  waste  your  time  and  corrupt  your 
taste  by  looking  at  it.  Nothing  is  so  easy  as  to  imitate 
drapery  in  marble.  You  may  cast  a  piece  any  day;  and  carve  it 
with  such  subtlety  that  the  marble  shall  be  an  absolute  image 
of  the  folds.  But  that  is  not  sculpture.  That  is  mechanical 
manufacture. 

No  great  sculptor,  from  the  beginning  of  art  to  the  end  of 
it,  has  ever  carved,  or  ever  will,  a  deceptive  drapery.  He  has 
neither  time  nor  will  to  do  it.  His  mason's  lad  may  do  that 
if  he  likes.  A  man  who  can  carve  a  limb  or  a  face  never 
finishes  inferior  parts,  but  either  with  a  hasty  and  scornful 


18 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


I 


chisel,  or  with  such  grave  and  strict  selection  of  their  lines  as 
you  know  at  once  to  be  imaginative,  not  imitative. 

But  if,  as  in  this  case,  he  wants  to  oppose  the  simplicity  of 
his  central  subject  with  a  rich  background, — a  labyrinth  of 
ornamental  lines  to  relieve  the  severity  of  expressive  ones, — 
he  will  carve  you  a  carpet,  or  a  tree,  or  a  rose  thicket,  with 
their  fringes  and  leaves  and  thorns,  elaborated  as  richly  as 
natural  ones ;  but  always  for  the  sake  of  the  ornamental  form, 
never  of  the  imitation  ;  yet,  seizing  the  natural  character  in 
the  lines  he  gives,  with  twenty  times  the  precision  and  clear- 
ness of  sight  that  the  mere  imitator  has.  Examine  the  tassels 
of  the  cushion,  and  the  way  they  blend  with  the  fringe,  thor- 
oughly; you  cannot  possibly  see  finer  ornamental  sculpture. 
Then,  look  at  the  same  tassels  in  the  same  place  of  the  slab 
next  the  west  end  of  the  church,  and  you  will  see  a  scholar's 
rude  imitation  of  a  master's  hand,  though  in  a  fine  school. 
(Notice,  however,  the  folds  of  the  drapery  at  the  feet  of  this 
figure  :  they  are  cut  so  as  to  showr  the  hem  of  the  robe  within 
as  well  as  without,  and  are  fine.)  Then,  as  you  go  back  to 
Giotto's  chapel,  keep  to  the  left,  and  just  beyond  the  north 
door  in  the  aisle  is  the  much  celebrated  tomb  of  C.  Marsnp- 
pini,  by  Desiderio  of  Settignano.  It  is  very  fine  of  its  kind  ; 
but  there  the  drapery  is  chiefly  done  to  cheat  you,  and  chased 
delicately  to  show  how  finely  the  sculptor  could  chisel  it.  It 
is  wholly  vulgar  and  mean  in  cast  of  fold.  Under  your  feet, 
as  you  look  at  it,  you  will  tread  another  tomb  of  the  fine  time, 
which,  looking  last  at,  you  will  recognize  the  difference  be- 
tween the  false  and  true  art,  as  far  as  there  is  capacity  in  you 
at  present  to  do  so.  And  if  you  really  and  honestly  like  the 
low-lying  stones,  and  see  more  beauty  in  them,  you  have  also 
the  power  of  enjoying  Giotto,  into  whose  chapel  we  will  return 
to-morrow; — not  to-day,  for  the  light  must  have  left  it  by  this 
time  ;  and  now  that  you  have  been  looking  at  these  sculptures 
on  the  floor  you  had  better  traverse  nave  and  aisle  across  and 
across ;  and  get  some  idea  of  that  sacred  field  of  stone.  In 
the  north  transept  you  will  find  a  beautiful  knight,  the  finest 
in  chiselling  of  all  these  tombs,  except  one  by  the  same  hand 
in  the  south  aisle  just  where  it  enters  the  south  transept, 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 


19 


Examine  the  lines  of  the  Gothic  niches  traced  above  them  ; 
and  what  is  left  of  arabesque  on  their  armour.  They  are  far 
more  beautiful  and  tender  in  chivalric  conception  than  Dona- 
tello's  St.  George,  which  is  merely  a  piece  of  vigorous  natural- 
ism founded  on  these  older  tombs.  If  you  will  drive  in  the 
evening  to  the  Chartreuse  in  Val  d'Ema,  you  may  see  there  an 
uninjured  example  of  this  slab-tomb  by  Donatello  himself : 
very  beautiful ;  but  not  so  perfect  as  the  earlier  ones  on  which 
it  is  founded.  And  you  may  see  some  fading  light  and  shade 
of  monastic  life,  among  which  if  you  stay  till  the  fireflies  come 
out  in  the  twilight,  and  thus  get  to  sleep  when  you  come 
home,  you  will  be  better  prepared  for  to-morrow  morning's 
walk — if  you  will  take  another  with  me — than  if  you  go  to  a 
party,  to  talk  sentiment  about  Italy,  and  hear  the  last  news 
from  London  and  New  York. 


THE  SECOND  MOKNING. 

THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 

To-day,  as  early  as  you  please,  and  at  all  events  before 
doing  anything  else,  let  us  go  to  Giotto's  own  parish-church, 
Santa  Maria  Novella.  If,  walking  from  the  Strozzi  Palace, 
you  look  on  your  right  for  the  "Way  of  the  Beautiful  Ladies," 
it  will  take  you  quickly  there. 

Do  not  let  anything  in  the  way  of  acquaintance,  sacristan, 
or  chance  sight,  stop  you  in  doing  what  I  tell  you.  Walk 
straight  up  to  the  church,  into  the  apse  of  it ; — (you  may  let 
your  eyes  rest,  as  you  walk,  on  the  glow  of  its  glass,  only 
mind  the  step,  half  way  ;} — and  lift  the  curtain ;  and  go  in 
behind  the  grand  marble  altar,  giving  anybody  who  follows 
you  anything  they  want,  to  hold  their  tongues,  or  go  away. 

You  know,  most  probably,  already,  that  the  frescos  on  each 
side  of  you  are  Ghirlandajo's.  You  have  been  told  they  are 
very  fine,  and  if  you  know  anything  of  painting,  you  know  the 
portraits  in  them  are  so.  Nevertheless,  somehow,  you  don't 
really  enjoy  these  frescos,  nor  come  often  here,  do  you  ? 


20 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


I 


The  reason  of  which  is,  that  if  you  are  a  nice  person,  thej 
are  not  nice  enough  for  you  ;  and  if  a  vulgar  person,  not  vul- 
gar enough.  But  if  you  are  a  nice  person,  I  want  you  to  look 
carefully,  to-day,  at  the  two  lowest,  next  the  windows,  for  a 
few  minutes,  that  you  may  better  feel  the  art  you  are  really 
to  stud}r,  by  its  contrast  with  these. 

On  your  left  hand  is  represented  the  birth  of  the  Virginc 
On  your  right,  her  meeting  with  Elizabeth. 

You  can't  easily  see  better  pieces — nowhere  more  pompous 
pieces) — of  flat  goldsmiths'  work.  Ghirlandajo  was  to  the 
end  of  his  life  a  mere  goldsmith,  with  a  gift  of  portraiture. 
And  here  he  has  done  his  best,  and  has  put  a  long  wall  in 
wonderful  perspective,  and  the  whole  city  of  Florence  behind 
Elizabeth's  house  in  the  hill  country  ;  and  a  splendid  bas- 
relief,  in  the  style  of  Luca  della  Eobbia,  in  St.  Anne's  bed- 
room ;  and  he  has  carved  all  the  pilasters,  and  embroidered 
all  the  dresses,  and  flourished  and  trumpeted  into  every  cor- 
ner ;  and  it  is  all  done,  within  just  a  point,  as  well  as  it  can 
be  done  ;  and  quite  as  well  as  Ghirlandajo  could  do  it.  But 
the  point  in  which  it  just  misses  being  as  well  as  it  can  be 
done,  is  the  vital  point.   And  it  is  all  simply — good  for  nothing. 

Extricate  yourself  from  the  goldsmith's  rubbish  of  it,  and 
look  full  at  the  Salutation.  You  will  say,  perhaps,  at  first, 
"  What  grand  and  graceful  figures  ! "  Are  you  sure  they  are 
graceful  ?  Look  again  and  you  will  see  their  draperies  hang 
from  them  exactly  as  they  would  from  two  clothes-pegs. 
Now,  fine  drapery,  really  well  drawn,  as  it  hangs  from  a 
clothes-peg,  is  always  rather  impressive,  especially  if  it  be 
disposed  in  large  breadths  and  deep  folds ;  but  that  is  the 
only  grace  of  their  figures. 

Secondly.  Look  at  the  Madonna,  carefully.  You  will  find 
she  is  not  the  least  meek — only  stupid, — as  all  the  other 
women  in  the  picture  are. 

"St.  Elizabeth,  you  think,  is  nice"?  Yes;  "and  she  says, 
'  Whence  is  this  to  me;  that  the  mother  of  my  Lord  should 
come  to  me  ? '  really  with  a  great  deal  of  serious  feeling  ?  * 
Yes,  with  a  great  deal.  Well,  you  have  looked  enough  at 
those  two.    Now — just  for  another  minute— look  at  the  birth 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 


21 


of  the  Virgin.  "  A  most  graceful  group,  (your  Murray's  Guide 
tells  you,,)  in  the  attendant  servants."  Extremely  so.  Also, 
the  one  holding  the  child  is  rather  pretty.  Also,  the  ser- 
vant pouring  out  the  water  does  it  from  a  great  height,  with- 
out splashing,  most  cleverly.  Also,  the  lady  coming  to  ask 
for  St.  Anne,  and  see  the  baby,  walks  majestically  and  is  very 
finely  dressed.  And  as  for  that  bas-relief  in  the  style  of  Luca 
delta  Eobbia,  you  might  really  almost  think  it  was  Luca! 
The  very  best  plated  goods,  Master  Ghirlandajo,  no  doubt — 
always  on  hand  at  your  shop. 

Well,  now  you  must  ask  for  the  Sacristan,  who  is  civil  and 
nice  enough,  and  get  him  to  let  you  into  the  green  cloister, 
and  then  go  into  the  less  cloister  opening  out  of  it  on  the 
right,  as  you  go  down  the  steps ;  and  you  must  ask  for  the 
tomb  of  the  Marcheza  Stiozzi  Bidolh"  ;  and  in  the  recess  be- 
hind the  Marcheza's  tomb — very  close  to  the  ground,  and  in 
excellent  light,  if  the  day  is  fine — you  will  see  two  small  fres- 
cos, only  about  four  feet  wide  each,  in  odd-shaped  bits  of  wail 
— quarters  of  circles ;  representing — that  on  the  left,  the 
Meeting  of  Joachim  and  Anna  at  the  Golden  Gate ;  and  that 
on  the  right,  the  Birth  of  the  Virgin. 

No  flourish  of  trumpets  here,  at  any  rate,  you  think  !  No 
gold  on  the  gate  ;  and,  for  the  birth  of  the  Virgin — is  this 
all !  Goodness  ! — nothing  to  be  seen,  whatever,  of  bas-reliefs, 
nor  fine  dresses,  nor  graceful  pourings  out  of  water,  nor  pro- 
cessions of  visitors  ? 

No.  There's  but  one  thing  you  can  see,  here,  which  you 
didn't  in  Ghirlandajo's  fresco,  unless  you  were  very  clever  and 
looked  hard  for  it — the  Baby !  And  you  are  never  likely  to 
see  a  more  true  piece  of  Giotto's  work  in  this  world. 

A  round-faced,  small-eyed  little  thing,  tied  up  in  a  bundle  ! 

Yes,  Giotto  was  of  opinion  she  must  have  appeared  really 
not  much  else  than  that.  But  look  at  the  servant  who  has 
just  finished  dressing  her  ; — awe-struck,  full  of  love  and  won- 
der, putting  her  hand  softly  on  the  child's  head,  who  has  never 
cried.  The  nurse,  who  has  just  taken  her,  is— the  nurse,  and 
no  more  :  tidy  in  the  extreme,  and  greatly  proud  and  pleased ; 
but  would  be  as  much  so  with  any  other  child. 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


Ghirlandajo's  St.  Anne  (I  ought  to  have  told  you  to  notice 
that, — you  can  afterwards)  is  sitting  strongly  up  in  bed, 
watching,  if  not  directing,  all  that  is  going  on.  Giotto's  lying 
down  on  the  pillow,  leans  her  face  on  her  hand  ;  partly  ex- 
hausted, partly  in  deep  thought.  She  knows  that  all  will 
be  well  done  for  the  child,  either  by  the  servants,  or  God ; 
she  need  not  look  after  anything. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed  is  the  midwife,  and  a  servant  who 
has  brought  drink  for  St.  Anne.  The  servant  stops,  seeing 
her  so  quiet ;  asking  the  midwife,  Shall  I  give  it  her  now  ? 
The  midwife,  her  hands  lifted  under  her  robe,  in  the  attitude 
of  thanksgiving,  (with  Giotto  distinguishable  always,  though 
one  doesn't  know  how,  from  that  of  prayer,)  answers,  with 
her  look,  "  Let  be — she  does  not  want  anything." 

At  the  door  a  single  acquaintance  is  coming  in,  to  see  the 
child.  Of  ornament,  there  is  only  the  entirely  simple  outline 
of  the  vase  which  the  servant  carries  ;  of  colour,  two  or  three 
masses  of  sober  red,  and  pure  white,  with  brown  and  gray. 

That  is  all.  And  if  you  can  be  pleased  with  this,  you  can 
see  Florence.  But  if  not,  by  all  means  amuse  yourself  there, 
if  you  find  it  amusing,  as  long  as  you  like  ;  you  can  never  see 
it. 

But  if  indeed  you  are  pleased,  ever  so  little,  with  this  fresco, 
s think  what  that  pleasure  means.  I  brought  you,  on  purpose, 
round,  through  the  richest  overture,  and  farrago  of  tweedle- 
dum and  tweedledee,  I  could  find  in  Florence  ;  and  here  is  a 
tune  of  four  notes,  on  a  shepherd's  pipe,  played  by  the  picture 
of  nobody  ;  and  yet  you  like  it !  You  know  what  music  is, 
then.  Here  is  another  little  tune,  by  the  same  player,  and 
sweeter.    I  let  you  hear  the  simplest  first. 

The  fresco  on  the  left  hand,  with  the  bright  blue  sky,  and 
the  rosy  figures  !    Why,  anybody  might  like  that ! 

Yes  ;  but,  alas,  all  the  blue  sky  is  repainted.  It  was  blue 
always,  however,  and  bright  too  ;  and  I  dare  say,  when  the 
fresco  was  first  done,  anybody  did  like  it. 

You  know  the  story  of  Joachim  and  Anna,  I  hope  ?  Not 
that  I  do,  myself,  quite  in  the  ins  and  outs  ;  and  if  you  don't 
I'm  not  going  to  keep  you  waiting  while  I  tell  it.    All  you 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 


23 


need  know,  and  you  scarcely,  before  this  fresco,  need  know 
so  much,  is,  that  here  are  an  old  husband  and  old  wife,  meet- 
ing again  by  surprise,  after  losing  each  other,  and  being  each 
in  great  fear  ; — meeting  at  the  place  where  they  were  told  by 
God  each  to  go,  without  knowing  what  was  to  happen  there. 

"  So  they  rushed  into  one  another's  arms,  and  kissed  each 
other." 

No,  says  Giotto, — not  that. 

"  They  advanced  to  meet,  in  a  manner  conformable  to  the 
strictest  laws  of  composition  ;  and  with  their  draperies  cast 
into  folds  which  no  one  until  Raphael  could  have  arranged 
better." 

No,  says  Giotto, — not  that. 

St.  Anne  has  moved  quickest  ;  her  dress  just  falls  into  folds 
sloping  backwards  enough  to  tell  you  so  much.  She  has 
caught  St.  Joachim  by  his  mantle,  and  draws  him  to  her, 
softly,  by  that.  St.  Joachim  lays  his  hand  under  her  arm, 
seeing  she  is  like  to  faint,  and  holds  her  up.  They  do  not 
kiss  each  other — only  look  into  each  other's  eyes.  And  God's 
angel  lays  his  hand  on  their  heads. 

Behind  them,  there  are  two  rough  figures,  busied  with  their 
own  affairs, — two  of  Joachim's  shepherds  ;  one,  bare  headed, 
the  other  wearing  the  wide  Florentine  cap  with  the  falling 
point  behind,  which  is  exactly  like  the  tube  of  a  larkspur  or 
violet ;  both  carrying  game,  and  talking  to  each  other  about 
— Greasy  Joan  and  her  pot,  or  the  like.  Not  at  all  the  sort 
of  persons  whom  you  would  have  thought  in  harmony  with 
the  scene ; — by  the  laws  of  the  drama,  according  to  Racine  or 
Voltaire. 

No,  but  according  to  Shakespeare,  or  Giotto,  these  are  just 
the  kind  of  persons  likely  to  be  there  :  as  much  as  the  angel 
is  likely  to  be  there  also,  though  you  will  be  told  nowadays 
that  Giotto  was  absurd  for  putting  him  into  the  sky,  of  which 
an  apothecary  can  always  produce  the  similar  blue,  in  a  bottle. 
And  now  that  you  have  had  Shakespeare,  and  sundry  other 
men  of  head  and  heart,  following  the  track  of  this  shepherd 
lad,  you  can  forgive  him  his  grotesques  in  the  corner.  But 
that  he  should  have  forgiven  them  to  himself,  after  the  train- 


24 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


ing  lie  had,  this  is  the  wonder  !  We  have  seen  simple  pict* 
ures  enough  in  our  day  ;  and  therefore  we  think  that  of  course 
shepherd  boys  will  sketch  shepherds  :  what  wonder  is  there  in 

that  ? 

I  can  show  you  how  in  this  shepherd  boy  it  was  very  won- 
derful indeed,  if  you  will  walk  for  five  minutes  back  into  the 
church  with  me,  and  up  into  the  chapel  at  the  end  of  the 
south  transept, — at  least  if  the  day  is  bright,  and  you  get  the 
Sacristan  to  undraw  the  window-curtain  in  the  transept  itself. 
For  then  the  light  of  it  will  be  enough  to  show  you  the  en- 
tirely authentic  and  most  renowned  work  of  Giotto's  master  ; 
and  you  will  see  through  what  schooling  the  lad  had  gone. 

A  good  and  brave  master  he  was,  if  ever  boy  had  one ;  and, 
as  you  will  find  when  you  know  really  who  the  great  men  are, 
the  master  is  half  their  life  ;  and  well  they  know  it — always 
naming  themselves  from  their  master,  rather  than  their  fami- 
lies. See  then  what  kind  of  work  Giotto  had  been  first  put 
to.  There  is,  literally,  not  a  square  inch  of  all  that  panel — 
some  ten  feet  high  by  six  or  seven  wide — which  is  not  wrought 
in  gold  and  colour  with  the  fineness  of  a  Greek  manuscript. 
There  is  not  such  an  elaborate  piece  of  ornamentation  in  the 
first  page  of  any  Gothic  king's  missal,  as  you  will  find  in  that 
Madonna's  throne  ; — the  Madonna  herself  is  meant  to  be  grave 
and  noble  only  ;  and  to  be  attended  only  by  angels. 

And  here  is  this  saucy  imp  of  a  lad  declares  his  people  must 
do  without  gold,  and  without  thrones  ;  nay,  that  the  Golden 
Gate  itself  shall  have  no  gilding  that  St.  Joachim  and  St. 
Anne  shall  have  only  one  angel  between  them  :  and  their  ser- 
vants shall  have  their  joke,  and  nobody  say  them  nay  ! 

It  is  most  wonderful ;  and  would  have  been  impossible,  had 
Cimabue  been  a  common  man,  though  ever  so  great  in  his 
own  way.  Nor  could  I  in  any  of  my  former  thinking  under- 
stand how  it  was,  till  I  saw  Cimabue's  own  work  at  Assisi ;  in 
which  he  shows  himself,  at  heart,  as  independent  of  his  gold 
as  Giotto, — even  more  intense,  capable  of  higher  things  than 
Giotto,  though  of  none,  perhaps,  so  keen  or  sweet.  But  to 
this  day,  among  all  the  Mater  Dolorosas  of  Christianity,  Cim- 
abue's  at  Assisi  is  the  noblest ;  nor  did  any  painter  after  him 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 


25 


add  one  link  to  the  chain  of  thought  with  which  he  summed 
the  creation  of  the  earth,  and  preached  its  redemption. 

He  evidently  never  checked  the  boy,  from  the  first  day  he 
found  him.  Showed  him  all  he  knew  :  talked  with  him  of 
many  things  he  felt  himself  unable  to  paint :  made  him  a 
workman  and  a  gentleman, — above  all,  a  Christian, — yet  left 
him — a  shepherd.  And  Heaven  had  made  him  such  a  painter, 
that,  at  his  height,  the  words  of  his  epitaph  are  in  nowise 
overwrought:  "Ille  ego  sum,  per  quern  pictura  extincta  re- 
vixit." 

A  word  or  two,  now,  about  the  repainting  by  which  this 
pictura  extincta  has  been  revived  to  meet  existing  taste. 
The  sky  is  entirely  daubed  over  with  fresh  blue  ;  yet  it  leaves 
with  unusual  care  the  original  outline  of  the  descending 
angel,  and  of  the  white  clouds  about  his  body.  This  idea  of 
the  angel  laying  his  hands  on  the  two  heads — (as  a  bishop  at 
Confirmation  does,  in  a  hurry  ;  and  I've  seen  one  sweep  four 
together,  like  Arnold  de  Winkelied), — partly  in  blessing,  partly 
as  a  symbol  of  their  being  brought  together  to  the  same  place 
by  God, — was  afterwards  repeated  again  and  again :  there  is  one 
beautiful  little  echo  of  it  among  the  old  pictures  in  the  schools 
of  Oxford.  This  is  the  first  occurrence  of  it  that  I  know  in  pure 
Italian  painting  ;  but  the  idea  is  Etruscan-Greek,  and  is  used 
by  the  Etruscan  sculptors  of  the  door  of  the  Baptistery  of 
Pisa,  of  the  evil  angel,  who  "lays  the  heads  together"  of  two 
very  different  persons  from  these — Herodias  and  her  daughter. 

Joachim,  and  the  shepherd  with  the  larkspur  cap,  are  both 
quite  safe  ;  the  other  shepherd  a  little  reinforced  ;  the  black 
bunches  of  grass,  hanging  about  are  retouches.  They  were 
once  bunches  of  plants  drawn  with  perfect  delicacy  and  care ; 
you  may  see  one  left,  faint,  with  heart-shaped  leaves,  on  the 
highest  ridge  of  rock  above  the  shepherds.  The  whole  land- 
scape is,  however,  quite  undecipherably  changed  and  spoiled. 

You  will  be  apt  to  think  at  first,  that  if  anything  has  been 
restored,  surely  the  ugly  shepherd's  uglier  feet  have.  No, 
not  at  all.  Restored  feet  are  always  drawn  with  entirely 
orthodox  and  academical  toes,  like  the  Apollo  Belvidere's. 
You  would  have  admired  them  very  much.  These  are  Giotto's 


26  MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


own  doing,  every  bit ;  and  a  precious  business  he  has  had  of 
it,  trying  again  and  again — in  vain.  Even  hands  were  difficult 
enough  to  him,  at  this  time  ;  but  feet,  and  bare  legs  !  Well, 
he'll  have  a  try,  he  thinks,  and  gets  really  a  fair  line  at  last, 
when  you  are  close  to  it ;  but,  laying  the  light  on  the  ground 
afterwards,  he  dare  not  touch  this  precious  and  dear-bought 
outline.  Stops  all  round  it,  a  quarter  of  an  inch  off,1  with 
such  effect  as  you  see.  But  if  you  want  to  know  what  sort  of 
legs  and  feet  he  can  draw,  look  at  our  lambs,  in  the  corner  of 
the  fresco  under  the  arch  on  your  left ! 

And  there  is  one  on  your  right,  though  more  repainted — 
the  little  Virgin  presenting  herself  at  the  Temple, — about 
which  I  could  also  say  much.  The  stooping  figure,  kissing 
the  hem  of  her  robe  without  her  knowing,  is,  as  far  as  I  re- 
member, first  in  this  fresco  ;  the  origin,  itself,  of  the  main 
design  in  all  the  others  you  know  so  w^ell  ;  (and  with  its 
steps,  by  the  way,  in  better  perspective  already  than  most  of 
them). 

"  This  the  original  one  !  "  you  will  be  inclined  to  exclaim,  if 
you  have  any  general  knowledge  of  the  subsequent  art.  "  This 
Giotto  !  why  it's  a  cheap  rechauffe  of  Titian ! "  No,  my 
friend.  The  boy  who  tried  so  hard  to  draw  those  steps  in 
perspective  had  been  carried  down  others,  to  his  grave,  two 
hundred  years  before  Titian  ran  alone  at  Cadore.  But,  as 
surely  as  Venice  looks  on  the  sea,  Titian  looked  upon  this, 
and  caught  the  reflected  light  of  it  forever. 

What  kind  of  boy  is  this,  think  you,  who  can  make  Titian 
his  copyist, — Dante  his  friend?  What  new  power  is  here 
which  is  to  change  the  heart  of  Italy  ?— can  you  see  it,  feel  it, 
writing  before  you  these  wrords  on  the  faded  wall  ? 

"You  shall  see  things — as  they  Are." 

"And  the  least  with  the  greatest,  because  God  made 
them." 

"  And  the  greatest  with  the  least,  because  God  made  you, 
and  gave  you  eyes  and  a  heart." 

1  Perhaps  it  is  only  the  restorer's  white  on  the  ground  that  stops ;  but 
I  think  a  restorer  would  never  have  been  so  wise,  but  have  gone  right 
up  to  the  outline,  and  spoiled  all. 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 


27 


I.  You  shall  see  things— as  they  are.  So  easy  a  matter 
that,  you  think?  So  much  more  difficult  and  sublime  to 
paint  grand  processions  and  golden  thrones,  than  St.  Anne 
faint  on  her  pillow,  and  her  servant  at  pause  ? 

Easy  or  not,  it  is  all  the  sight  that  is  required  of  you  in 
this  world, — to  see  things,  and  men,  and  yourself, — as  they 
are. 

II.  And  the  least  with  the  greatest,  because  God  made  them, 
— shepherd,  and  flock,  and  grass  of  the  field,  no  less  than  the 
Golden  Gate. 

III.  But  also  the  golden  gate  of  Heaven  itself,  open,  and  the 
angels  of  God  coming  down  from  it. 

These  three  things  Giotto  taught,  and  men  believed,  in  his 
day.  Of  which  Faith  you  shall  next  see  brighter  work ;  only 
before  we  leave  the  cloister,  I  want  to  sum  for  you  one  or  two 
of  the  instant  and  evident  technical  changes  produced  in  the 
school  of  Florence  by  this  teaching. 

One  of  quite  the  first  results  of  Giotto's  simply  looking  at 
things  as  they  were,  was  his  finding  out  that  a  red  thing  was 
red,  and  a  brown  thing  brown,  and  a  white  thing  white — all 
over. 

The  Greeks  had  painted  anything  anyhow, — gods  black, 
horses  red,  lips  and  cheeks  white  ;  and  when  the  Etruscan 
vase  expanded  into  a  Cimabue  picture,  or  a  Tan  mosaic,  still, 
—except  that  the  Madonna  was  to  have  a  blue  dress,  and 
everything  else  as  much  gold  on  it  as  could  be  managed, — 
there  was  very  little  advance  in  notions  of  colour.  Suddenly, 
Giotto  threw  aside  all  the  glitter,  and  all  the  conventionalism  ; 
and  declared  that  he  saw  the  sky  blue,  the  tablecloth  white, 
and  angels,  when  he  dreamed  of  them,  rosy.  And  he  simply 
founded  the  schools  of  colour  in  Italy — Venetian  and  all,  as  I 
will  show  you  to-morrow  morning,  if  it  is  fine.  And  what  is 
more,  nobody  discovered  much  about  colour  after  him. 

But  a  deeper  result  of  his  resolve  to  look  at  things  as  they 
were,  was  his  getting  so  heartily  interested  in  them  that  he 
couldn't  miss  their  decisive  moment.  There  is  a  decisive  in- 
stant in  all  matters ;  and  if  you  look  languidly,  you  are  sure 
to  miss  it.    Nature  seems  always,  somehow,  trying  to  make 


28 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


you  miss  it.  u  I  will  see  that  through,"  you  must  say,  "  with1 
out  turning  my  head  " ;  or  you  won't  see  the  trick  of  it  at  all. 
And  the  most  significant  thing  in  all  his  work,  you  will  find 
hereafter,  is  his  choice  of  moments.  I  will  give  you  at  once 
two  instances  in  a  picture  wrhich,  for  other  reasons,  you 
should  quickly  compare  with  these  frescos.  Return  by  the 
Via  delle  Belle  Donne  ;  keep  the  Casa  Strozzi  on  your  right ; 
and  go  straight  on,  through  the  market.  The  Florentines 
think  themselves  so  civilized,  forsooth,  for  building  a  nuovo 
Lung-Arno,  and  three  manufactory  chimneys  opposite  it : 
and  yet  sell  butchers'  meat,  dripping  red,  peaches,  and  an- 
chovies, side  by  side  :  it  is  a  sight  to  be  seen.  Much  more, 
Luca  della  Robbia's  Madonna  in  the  circle  above  the  chapel 
door.  Never  pass  near  the  market  without  looking  at  it ;  and 
glance  from  the  vegetables  underneath  to  Luca's  leaves  and 
lilies,  that  you  may  see  how  honestly  he  was  trying  to  make  his 
clay  like  the  garden-stuff.  But  to-day,  you  may  pass  quickly 
on  to  the  Uffizii,  which  will  be  just  open ;  and  when  you 
enter  the  great  gallery,  turn  to  the  right,  and  there,  the  first 
picture  you  come  at  will  be  No.  6,  Giotto's  "  Agony  in  the 
garden." 

I  used  to  think  it  so  dull  that  I  could  not  believe  it  was 
Giotto's.  That  is  partly  from  its  dead  colour,  which  is  the 
boy's  way  of  telling  you  it  is  night  :—-more  from  the  subject 
being  one  quite  beyond  his  age,  and  which  he  felt  no  pleasure 
in  trying  at.  You  may  see  he  wras  still  a  boy,  for  he  not  only 
cannot  draw  feet  yet,  in  the  least,  and  scrupulously  hides 
them  therefore ;  but  is  very  hard  put  to  it  for  the  hands, 
being  obliged  to  draw  them  mostly  in  the  same  position, — all 
the  four  fingers  together.  But  in  the  careful  bunches  of 
grass  and  weeds  you  will  see  what  the  fresco  foregrounds 
were  before  they  got  spoiled  ;  and  there  are  some  things  he 
can  understand  already,  even  about  that  Agony,  thinking  of 
it  in  his  own  fixed  way.  Some  things, —  not  altogether  to  be 
explained  by  the  old  symbol  of  the  angel  with  the  cup.  He 
will  try  if  he  cannot  explain  them  better  in  those  two  little 
pictures  below  ;  which  nobody  ever  looks  at ;  the  great 
Roman  sarcophagus  being  put  in  front  of  them,  and  the  light 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 


23 


glancing  on  the  new  varnish  so  that  you  must  twist  about 
like  a  lizard  to  see  anything.  Nevertheless,  you  may  make 
out  what  Giotto  meant. 

"  The  cup  which  my  Father  hath  given  me,  shall  I  not 
drink  it  ?  "  In  what  was  its  bitterness  ? — thought  the  boy. 
"  Crucifixion  ? — Well,  it  hurts,  doubtless  ;  but  the  thieves 
had  to  bear  it  too,  and  many  poor  human  wretches  have  to 
bear  worse  on  our  battlefields.  But " — and  he  thinks,  and 
thinks,  and  then  he  paints  his  two  little  pictures  for  the 
predella. 

They  represent,  of  course,  the  sequence  of  the  time  in  Geth- 
semane  ;  but  see  what  choice  the  youth  made  of  his  moments, 
having  two  panels  to  fill.  Plenty  of  choice  for  him — in  pain. 
The  Flagellation — the  Mocking — the  Bearing  of  the  Cross ; — 
all  habitually  given  by  the  Margheritones,  and  their  school, 
as  extremes  of  pain. 

"  No,"  thinks  Giotto.  "  There  was  worse  than  all  that. 
Many  a  good  man  has  been  mocked,  spitefully  entreated, 
spitted  on,  slain.  But  who  was  ever  so  betrayed  ?  Who  ever 
saw  such  a  sword  thrust  in  his  mother's  heart?" 

He  paints,  first,  the  laying  hands  on  Him  in  the  garden, 
but  with  only  two  principal  figures, — Judas  and  Peter,  of 
course  ;  Judas  and  Peter  were  always  principal  in  the  old 
Byzantine  composition, — Judas  giving  the  kiss — Peter  cutting 
off  the  servant's  ear.  But  the  two  are  here,  not  merely  prin- 
cipal, but  almost  alone  in  sight,  all  the  other  figures  thrown 
back ;  and  Peter  is  not  at  all  concerned  about  the  servant,  or 
his  struggle  with  him.  He  has  got  him  down, — but  looks 
back  suddenly  at  Judas  giving  the  kiss.  What ! — you  are  the 
traitor,  then — you  ! 

"  Yes,"  says  Giotto ;  "  and  you,  also,  in  an  hour  more." 

The  other  picture  is  more  deeply  felt,  still.  It  is  of  Christ 
brought  to  the  foot  of  the  cross.  There  is  no  wringing  of 
hands  or  lamenting  crowd — no  haggard  signs  of  fainting  or 
pain  in  His  body.  Scourging  or  fainting,  feeble  knee  and 
torn  wound, — he  thinks  scorn  of  all  that,  this  shepherd-boy, 
One  executioner  is  hammering  the  wedges  of  the  cross  harder 
down.    The  other — not  ungently — is  taking  Christ's  red  robe 


30 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


off  His  shoulders.  And  St.  John,  a  few  yards  off,  is  keeping 
his  mother  from  coming  nearer.  She  looks  down,  not  at 
Christ ;  but  tries  to  come. 

And  now  you  may  go  on  for  your  day's  seeings  through  the 
rest  of  the  gallery,  if  you  will — Fornarina,  and  the  wonderful 
cobbler,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I  don't  wrant  you  any  more 
till  to-morrow  morning. 

But  if,  meantime,  you  will  sit  down,— say,  before  Sandro 
Botticelli's  "  Fortitude,"  which  I  shall  want  you  to  look  at, 
one  of  these  days  ;  (No.  1299,  innermost  room  from  the  Tri- 
bune,) and  there  read  this  following  piece  of  one  of  my  Ox- 
ford lectures  on  the  relation  of  Cimabue  to  Giotto,  you  will 
be  better  prepared  for  our  work  to-morrow  morning  in  Santa 
Croce  ;  and  may  find  something  to  consider  of,  in  the  room 
you  are  in.  Where,  by  the  way,  observe  that  No.  1288  is  a 
most  true  early  Lionardo,  of  extreme  interest :  and  the  sa- 
vants who  doubt  it  are  never  mind  what ;  but  sit  down  at 

present  at  the  feet  of  Fortitude,  and  read. 

Those  of  my  readers  who  have  been  unfortunate  enough  to 
interest  themselves  in  that  most  profitless  of  studies — the 
philosophy  of  art — have  been  at  various  times  teased  or 
amused  by  disputes  respecting  the  relative  dignity  of  the 
contemplative  and  dramatic  schools. 

Contemplative,  of  course,  being  the  term  attached  to  the 
system  of  painting  things  only  for  the  sake  of  their  own  nice- 
ness — a  lady  because  she  is  pretty,  or  a  lion  because  he  is 
strong  :  and  the  dramatic  school  being  that  which  cannot  be 
satisfied  unless  it  sees  something  going  on  :  which  can't  paint 
a  pretty  lady  unless  she  is  being  made  love  to,  or  being  mur- 
dered ;  and  can't  paint  a  stag  or  a  lion  unless  they  are  being 
hunted,  or  shot,  or  the  one  eating  the  other. 

You  have  always  heard  me — or,  if  not,  will  expect  by  the 
very  tone  of  this  sentence  to  hear  me,  now,  on  the  whole  rec- 
ommend you  to  prefer  the  Contemplative  school.  But  the 
comparison  is  always  an  imperfect  and  unjust  one,  unless 
quite  other  terms  are  introduced. 

The  real  greatness  or  smallness  of  schools  is  not  in  their 
preference  of  inactivity  to  action,  nor  of  action  to  inactivity, 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 


31 


It  is  in  their  preference  of  worthy  things  to  unworthy,  in 
rest ;  and  of  kind  action  to  unkind,  in  business. 

A  Dutchman  can  be  just  as  solemnly  and  entirely  contem- 
plative of  a  lemon  pip  and  a  cheese  paring,  as  an  Italian  of 
the  Virgin  in  Glory.  An  English  squire  has  pictures,  purely 
contemplative,  of  his  favorite  horse — and  a  Parisian  lady, 
pictures,  purely  contemplative,  of  the  back  and  front  of  the 
last  dress  proposed  to  her  in  La  Mode  Artistique.  All  these 
works  belong  to  the  same  school  of  silent  admiration  ; — the 
vital  question  concerning  them  is,  "  What  do  you  admire  ?  " 

Now  therefore,  when  you  hear  me  so  often  saying  that  the 
Northern  races — Norman  and  Lombard, — are  active,  or  dra- 
matic, in  their  art ;  and  that  the  Southern  races — Greek  and 
Arabian, — are  contemplative,  you  ought  instantly  to  ask 
farther,  Active  in  what  ?  Contemplative  of  what  ?  And  the 
answer  is,  The  active  art — Lombardic, — rejoices  in  hunting 
and  fighting;  the  contemplative  art — Byzantine,— contem- 
plates the  mysteries  of  the  Christian  faith. 

And  at  first,  on  such  answer,  one  would  be  apt  at  once  to 
conclude — All  grossness  must  be  in  the  Lombard  ;  all  good 
in  the  Byzantine.  But  again  we  should  be  wrong, — and  ex- 
tremely wrong.  For  the  hunting  and  fighting  did  practically 
produce  strong,  and  often  virtuous,  men  ;  while  the  perpetual 
and  inactive  contemplation  of  what  it  was  impossible  to  under- 
stand, did  not  on  the  whole  render  the  contemplative  persons, 
stronger,  wiser,  or  even  more  amiable.  So  that,  in  the  twelfth 
century,  while  the  Northern  art  was  only  in  need  of  direction, 
the  Southern  was  in  need  of  life.  The  North  was  indeed 
spending  its  valour  and  virtue  on  ignoble  objects ;  but  the 
South  disgracing  the  noblest  objects  by  its  want  of  valour  and 
virtue. 

Central  stood  Etruscan  Florence— her  root  in  the  earth, 
bound  with  iron  and  brass — wet  with  the  dew  of  heaven. 
Agriculture  in  occupation,  religious  in  thought,  she  accepted, 
like  good  ground,  the  good  ;  refused,  like  the  Bock  of  Fesole, 
the  evil ;  directed  the  industry  of  the  Northman  into  the  arts 
of  peace  ;  kindled  the  dreams  of  the  Byzantine  with  the  fire 
of  charity.    Child  of  her  peace,  and  exponent  of  her  passion. 


o2 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


her  Cimabue  became  the  interpreter  to  mankind  of  the  mean* 
ing  of  the  Birth  of  Christ. 

We  hear  constantly,  and  think  naturally,  of  him  as  of  a  man 
whose  peculiar  genius  in  painting  suddenly  reformed  its  prin- 
ciples ;  who  suddenly  painted,  out  of  his  own  gifted  imagina- 
tion, beautiful  instead  of  rude  pictures ;  and  taught  his  scholar 
Giotto  to  carry  on  the  impulse  ;  which  we  suppose  thencefor- 
ward to  have  enlarged  the  resources  and  bettered  the  achieve- 
ments of  painting  continually,  up  to  our  own  time, — when  the 
triumphs  of  art  having  been  completed,  and  its  uses  ended, 
something  higher  is  offered  to  the  ambition  of  mankind  ;  and 
Watt  and  Faraday  initiate  the  Age  of  Manufacture  and  Science, 
as  Cimabue  and  Giotto  instituted  that  of  Art  and  Imagination. 

In  this  conception  of  the  History  of  Mental  and  Physical 
culture,  we  much  overrate  the  influence,  though  we  cannot 
overrate  the  power,  of  the  men  by  whom  the  change  seems  to 
have  been  effected.  We  cannot  overrate  their  power, — for 
the  greatest  men  of  any  age,  those  who  become  its  leaders 
when  there  is  a  great  march  to  be  begun,  are  indeed  sepa- 
rated from  the  average  intellects  of  their  day  by  a  distance 
which  is  immeasurable  in  any  ordinary  terms  of  wonder. 

But  we  far  overrate  their  influence  ;  because  the  apparently 
sudden  result  of  their  labour  or  invention  is  only  the  mani- 
fested fruit  of  the  toil  and  thought  of  many  who  preceded 
them,  and  of  whose  names  we  have  never  heard.  The  skill 
of  Cimabue  cannot  be  extolled  too  highly  ;  but  no  Madonna 
by  his  hand  could  ever  have  rejoiced  the  soul  of  Italy,  unless 
for  a  thousand  years  before,  many  a  nameless  Greek  and 
nameless  Goth  had  adorned  the  traditions,  and  lived  in  the 
love,  of  the  Virgin. 

In  like  manner,  it  is  impossible  to  overrate  the  sagacity, 
patience,  or  precision,  of  the  masters  in  modern  mechanical 
and  scientific  discovery.  But  their  sudden  triumph,  and  the 
unbalancing  of  all  the  world  by  their  words,  may  not  in  any 
wise  be  attributed  to  their  own  power,  or  even  to  that  of  the 
facts  they  have  ascertained.  They  owe  their  habits  and  meth- 
ods of  industry  to  the  paternal  example,  no  less  than  the 
inherited  energy,  of  men  who  long  ago  prosecuted  the  truths 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE, 


33 


of  nature,  through  the  rage  of  war,  and  the  adversity  of 
superstition  ;  and  the  universal  and  overwhelming  conse- 
quences of  the  facts  which  their  followers  have  now  pro- 
claimed, indicate  only  the  crisis  of  a  rapture  produced  by 
the  offering  of  new  objects  of  curiosity  to  nations  who  had 
nothing  to  look  at ;  and  of  the  amusement  of  novel  motion 
and  action  to  nations  who  had  nothing  to  do. 

Nothing  to  look  at !  That  is  indeed — you  will  find,  if  you 
consider  of  it — our  sorrowful  case.  The  vast  extent  of  the 
advertising  frescos  of  London,  daily  refreshed  into  brighter 
and  larger  frescos  by  its  billstickers,  cannot  somehow  suffi- 
ciently entertain  the  popular  eyes.  The  great  Mrs.  Allen,  with 
her  flowing  hair,  and  equally  flowing  promises,  palls  upon  rep- 
etition, and  that  Madonna  of  the  nineteenth  century  smiles 
in  vain  above  many  a  borgo  unrejoiced  ;  even  the  excitement 
of  the  shop-window,  with  its  unattainable  splendours,  or  too 
easily  attainable  impostures,  cannot  maintain  itself  in  the 
wearying  mind  of  the  populace,  and  I  find  my  charitable 
friends  inviting  the  children,  whom  the  streets  educate  only 
into  vicious  misery,  to  entertainments  of  scientific  vision,  in 
microscope  or  magic  lantern  ;  thus  giving  them  something  to 
look  at,  such  as  it  is  ; — fleas  mostly  ;  and  the  stomachs  of  va- 
rious vermin  ;  and  people  with  their  heads  cut  off  and  set  on 
again  ; — still  something,  to  look  at. 

The  fame  of  Cimabue  rests,  and  justly,  on  a  similar  charity. 
He  gave  the  populace  of  his  day  something  to  look  at ;  and 
satisfied  their  curiosity  with  science  of  something  they  had 
long  desired  to  know.  We  have  continually  imagined  in  our 
carelessness,  that  his  triumph  consisted  only  in  a  new  picto- 
rial skill  ;  recent  critical  writers,  unable  to  comprehend  how 
any  street  populace  could  take  pleasure  in  painting,  have 
ended  by  denying  his  triumph  altogether,  and  insisted  that 
he  gave  no  joy  to  Florence  ;  and  that  the  "  Joyful  quarter" 
was  accidentally  so  named — or  at  least  from  no  other  festivity 
than  that  of  the  procession  attending  Charles  of  Anjou.  I 
proved  to  you,  in  a  former  lecture,  that  the  old  tradition  was 
true,  and  the  delight  of  the  people  unquestionable.  BuL  that 
delight  was  not  merely  in  the  revelation  of  an  art  they  had 


34 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


not  known  how  to  practise ;  it  was  delight  in  the  revelation 
of  a  Madonna  whom  they  had  not  known  how  to  love. 

Again ;  what  was  revelation  to  them — we  suppose  farther 
and  as  unwisely,  to  have  been  only  art  in  him ;  that  in  bet- 
ter laying  of  colours,— in  better  tracing  of  perspectives — in 
recovery  of  principles  of  classic  composition — he  had  manu- 
factured, as  our  Gothic  Firms  now  manufacture  to  order,  a 
Madonna — in  whom  he  believed  no  more  than  they. 

Not  so.  First  of  the  Florentines,  first  of  European  men — 
he  attained  in  thought,  and  saw  with  spiritual  eyes,  exercised 
to  discern  good  from  evil, — the  face  of  her  who  was  blessed 
among  women  ;  and  with  his  following  hand,  made  visible  the 
Magnificat  of  his  heart. 

He  magnified  the  Maid ;  and  Florence  rejoiced  in  her 
Queen.  But  it  was  left  for  Giotto  to  make  the  queenship 
better  beloved,  in  its  sweet  humiliation. 

You  had  the  Etruscan  stock  in  Florence — Christian,  or  at 
least  semi-Christian ;  the  statue  of  Mars  still  in  its  streets, 
but  with  its  central  temple  built  for  Baptism  in  the  name  of 
Christ.  It  was  a  race  living  by  agriculture  ;  gentle,  thought- 
ful, and  exquisitely  fine  in  handiwrork.  The  straw  bonnet  of 
Tuscany — the  Leghorn — is  pure  Etruscan  art,  young  ladies  : 
— only  plaited  gold  of  God's  harvest,  instead  of  the  plaited 
gold  of  His  earth. 

"You  had  then  the  Norman  and  Lombard  races  coming  down 
on  this  :  kings,  and  hunters — splendid  in  war — insatiable  of 
action.  You  had  the  Greek  and  Arabian  races  flowing  from 
the  east,  bringing  with  them  the  law  of  the  City,  and  the 
dream  of  the  Desert. 

Cimabue — Etruscan  born,  gave,  we  saw,  the  life  of  the  Nor- 
man to  the  tradition  of  the  Greek :  eager  action  to  holy  con- 
templation. And  what  more  is  left  for  his  favourite  shepherd 
boy  Giotto  to  do,  than  this,  except  to  paint  with  ever-increas- 
ing skill?  We  fancy  he  only  surpassed  Cimabue — eclipsed 
by  greater  brightness. 

Not  so.  The  sudden  and  new  applause  of  Italy  would  never 
have  been  won  by  mere  increase  of  the  already-kindled  light. 
Giotto  had  wholly  another  work  to  do.    The  meeting  of  the 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 


35 


Norman  race  with  the  Byzantine  is  not  merely  that  of  action 
with  repose — not  merely  that  of  war  with  religion, — it  is  the 
meeting  of  domestic  life  with  monastic,  and  of  practical  house- 
hold sense  with  unpractical  Desert  insanity. 

I  have  no  other  word  to  use  than  this  last.  I  use  it  rever- 
ently, meaning  a  very  noble  thing  ;  I  do  not  know  how  far  ] 
ought  to  say — even  a  divine  thing.  Decide  that  for  your* 
selves.  Compare  the  Northern  farmer  with  St.  Francis  ;  the 
palm  hardened  by  stubbing  Thornaby  waste,  with  the  palm 
softened  by  the  imagination  of  the  wounds  of  Christ.  To  my 
own  thoughts,  both  are  divine  ;  decide  that  for  yourselves  ; 
but  assuredly,  and  without  possibility  of  other  decision,  one 
is,  humanly  speaking,  healthy  ;  the  other  unhealthy ;  one 
sane,  the  other — insane. 

To  reconcile  Drama  with  Dream,  Cimabue's  task  was  com- 
paratively an  easy  one.  But  to  reconcile  Sense  with — I  still 
use  even  this  following  word  reverently — Nonsense,  is  not  so 
easy  ;  and  he  who  did  it  first, — no  wonder  he  has  a  name  in 
the  world. 

I  must  lean,  however,  still  more  distinctly  on  the  word 
"domestic."  For  it  is  not  nationalism  and  commercial  com- 
petition— Mr.  Stuart  Mill's  "  other  career  for  woman  than  that 
of  wife  and  mother  "—which  are  reconcilable,  by  Giotto,  or 
by  anybody  else,  with  divine  vision.  But  household  wisdom, 
labour  of  love,  toil  upon  earth  according  to  the  law  of  Heaven 
— these  are  reconcilable,  in  one  code  of  glory,  with  revelation 
in  cave  or  island,  with  the  endurance  of  desolate  and  loveless 
days,  with  the  repose  of  folded  hands  that  wait  Heaven's 
time. 

Domestic  and  monastic.  He  was  the  first  of  Italians — -the 
first  of  Christians — who  equally  knew  the  virtue  of  both  lives  ; 
and  who  was  able  to  show  it  in  the  sight  of  men  of  all  ranks, 
— from  the  prince  to  the  shepherd  ;  and  of  all  powers, — from 
the  wisest  philosopher  to  the  simplest  child. 

For,  note  the  way  in  which  the  new  gift  of  painting,  be- 
queathed to  him  by  his  great  master,  strengthened  his  hands. 
Before  Cimabue,  no  beautiful  rendering  of  human  form  was 
possible  ;  and  the  rude  or  formal  types  of  the  Lombard  and 


36 


MORNING 8  IN  FLORENCE. 


Byzantine,  though  they  would  serve  in  the  tumult  of  the  chase, 
or  as  the  recognized  symbols  of  creed,  could  not  represent 
personal  and  domestic  character.  Faces  with  goggling  eyes 
and  rigid  lips  might  be  endured  with  ready  help  of  imagina- 
tion, for  gods,  angels,  saints,  or  hunters — or  for  anybody  else 
in  scenes  of  recognized  legend,  but  would  not  serve  for  pleas  • 
ant  portraiture  of  one's  own  self — or  of  the  incidents  of  gentle, 
actual  life.  And  even  Cimabue  did  not  venture  to  leave  the 
sphere  of  conventionally  reverenced  dignity.  He  still  painted 
— though  beautifully — only  the  Madonna,  and  the  St.  Joseph, 
and  the  Christ.  These  he  made  living, — Florence  asked  no 
more  :  and  "  Credette  Cimabue  nella  pintura  tener  lo  campo." 

But  Giotto  came  from  the  field,  and  saw  with  his  simple 
eyes  a  lowlier  worth.  And  he  painted — the  Madonna,  and  St. 
Joseph,  and  the  Christ, — yes,  by  all  means  if  you  choose  to 
call  them  so,  but  essentially, — Mamma,  Papa,  and  the  Baby. 
And  all  Italy  threw  up  its  cap, — u  Ora  ha  Giotto  il  grido." 

For  he  defines,  explains,  and  exalts,  every  sweet  incident 
of  human  nature  ;  and  makes  dear  to  daily  life  every  mystic 
imagination  of  natures  greater  than  our  own.  He  reconciles, 
while  he  intensifies,  every  virtue  of  domestic  and  monastic 
thought.  He  makes  the  simplest  household  duties  sacred, 
and  the  highest  religious  passions  serviceable  and  just. 


THE  THIRD  MORNING. 

BEFORE  THE  SOLD  AN. 

I  promised  some  note  of  Sandro's  Fortitude,  before  whom  1 
asked  you  to  sit  and  read  the  end  of  my  last  letter  ;  and  I've 
lost  my  own  notes  about  her,  and  forget,  now,  whether  she 
has  a  sword,  or  a  mace  ; — it  does  not  matter.  "What  is  chiefly 
notable  in  her  is— that  you  would  not,  if  you  had  to  guess 
who  she  was,  take  her  for  Fortitude  at  all.  Everybody  else's 
Fortitudes  announce  themselves  clearly  and  proudly.  They 
have  tower-like  shields,  and  lion-like  helmets — and  stand  firm 
astride  on  their  legs,  —and  are  confidently  ready  for  all  comers. 


BEFORE  THE  SOLDAN. 


37 


Yes  ; — ■  that  is  your  common  Fortitude.  Very  grand,  though 
common.    But  not  the  highest,  by  any  means. 

Eeady  for  all  comers,  and  a  match  for  them, — thinks  the 
universal  Fortitude  ; — no  thanks  to  her  for  standing  so  steady, 
then ! 

But  Botticelli's  Fortitude  is  no  match,  it  may  be,  for  any 
that  are  coming.  Worn,  somewhat  ;  and  not  a  little  weary, 
instead  of  standing  ready  for  all  comers,  she  is  sitting, — 
apparently  in  reverie,  her  fingers  playing  restlessly  and  idly 
— nay,  I  think — even  nervously,  about  the  hilt  of  her  sword, 

For  her  battle  is  not  to  begin  to-day  ;  nor  did  it  begin  yes- 
terday. Many  a  morn  and  eve  have  passed  since  it  began — 
and  now — is  this  to  be  the  ending  day  of  it  ?  And  if  this — ■ 
by  what  manner  of  end  ? 

That  is  what  Sandro's  Fortitude  is  thinking.  And  the  play- 
ing fingers  about  the  sword-hilt  would  fain  let  it  fall,  if  it 
might  be  :  and  yet,  how  swiftly  and  gladly  will  they  close  on 
it,  when  the  far-off  trumpet  blows,  which  she  will  hear  through 
all  her  reverie  ! 

There  is  yet  another  picture  of  Sandro's  here,  which  you 
must  look  at  before  going  back  to  Giotto  :  the  small  Judith 
in  the  room  next  the  Tribune,  as  you  return  from  this  outer 
one.  It  is  just  under  Leonardo's  Medusa.  She  is  returning 
to  the  camp  of  her  Israel,  followed  by  her  maid  carrying  the 
head  of  Holofernes.  And  she  walks  in  one  of  Botticelli's  light 
dancing  actions,  her  drapery  all  on  flutter,  and  her  hand,  like 
Fortitude's,  light  on  the  sword-hilt,  but  daintily — not  ner- 
vously, the  little  finger  laid  over  the  cross  of  it. 

And  at  the  first  glance — you  will  think  the  figure  merely  a 
piece  of  fifteenth-century  affectation.  '  Judith,  indeed  ! — say 
rather  the  daughter  of  Herodias,  at  her  mincingest.' 

Well,  yes — Botticelli  is  affected,  in  the  way  that  all  men  in 
that  century  necessarily  were.  Much  euphuism,  much  studied 
grace  of  manner,  much  formal  assertion  of  scholarship,  min- 
gling with  his  force  of  imagination.  And  he  likes  twisting 
the  fingers  of  hands  about,  just  as  Correggio  does.  But  he 
never  does  it  like  Correggio,  without  cause. 

Look  at  Judith  again, -—at  her  face,  not  her  drapery, — and 


38 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


remember  that  when  a  man  is  base  at  the  heart,  he  blights 
his  virtues  into  weaknesses  ;  but  when  he  is  true  at  the  heart, 
he  sanctifies  his  weaknesses  into  virtues.  It  is  a  weakness  of 
Botticelli's,  this  love  of  dancing  motion  and  waved  drapery  ; 
but  why  has  he  given  it  full  flight  here  ? 

Do  you  happen  to  know  anything  about  Judith  yourself, 
except  that  she  cut  off  Holofernes'  head  ;  and  has  been  made 
the  high  light  of  about  a  million  of  vile  pictures  ever  since,  in 
which  the  painters  thought  they  could  surely  attract  the  pub- 
lic to  the  double  show  of  an  execution,  and  a  pretty  woman, 
— especially  with  the  added  pleasure  of  hinting  at  previously 
ignoble  sin? 

When  you  go  home  to-day,  take  the  pains  to  write  out  for 
yourself,  in  the  connection  I  here  place  them,  the  verses  un- 
derneath numbered  from  the  book  of  J udith  ;  you  will  prob- 
ably think  of  their  meaning  more  carefully  as  you  write. 

Begin  thus  : 

"  Now  at  that  time,  Judith  heard  thereof,  which  was  the 
daughter  of  Merari,  *  *  *  the  son  of  Simeon,  the  son  of 
Israel."    And  then  write  out,  consecutively,  these  pieces- 
Chapter  viii.,  verses  2  to  8.    (Always  inclusive,)  and  read 
the  whole  chapter. 

Chapter  ix.,  verses  1  and  5  to  7,  beginning  this  piece  with 
the  previous  sentence,  "  Oh  God,  oh  my  God,  hear  me  also,  a 
widow." 

Chapter  ix.,    verses  11  to  14. 
x.,        "       1  to  5. 
xiii.,     "       6  to  10. 

xv.  ,       "      11  to  13. 
"     xvi.,      "       1  to  6. 

xvi.  ,      "     11  to  15. 
xvi.,      "      18  and  19. 

"  xvi.,  "  23  to  25. 
Now,  as  in  many  other  cases  of  noble  history,  apocryphal 
and  other,  I  do  not  in  the  least  care  how  far  the  literal  facts 
are  true.  The  conception  of  facts,  and  the  idea  of  Jewish 
womanhood,  are  there,  grand  and  real  as  a  marble  statue, — 
possession  for  all  ages.    And  you  will  feel,  after  you  have 


BEFORE  THE  SOLD  AN. 


39 


read  this  piece  of  history,  or  epic  poetry,  with  honourable 
care,  that  there  is  somewhat  more  to  be  thought  of  and  pict- 
ured in  Judith,  than  painters  have  mostly  found  it  in  them 
to  show  you  ;  that  she  is  not  merely  the  Jewish  Delilah  to  the 
Assyrian  Samson  ;  but  the  mightiest,  purest,  brightest  type 
of  high  passion  in  severe  womanhood  offered  to  our  human 
memory.  Sandro's  picture  is  but  slight ;  but  it  is  true  to 
her,  and  the  only  one  I  know  that  is  ;  and  after  writing  out 
these  verses,  you  will  see  why  he  gives  her  that  swift,  peace- 
ful motion,  while  you  read  in  her  face,  only  sweet  solemnity 
of  dreaming  thought.  "My  people  delivered,  and  by  my 
hand  ;  and  God  has  been  gracious  to  His  handmaid  !  "  The 
triumph  of  Miriam  over  a  fallen  host,  the  fire  of  exulting  mor- 
tal life  in  an  immortal  hour,  the  purity  and  severity  of  a  guar- 
dian angel — all  are  here  ;  and  as  her  servant  follows,  carrying 
indeed  the  head,  but  invisible — (a  mere  thing  to  be  carried — 
no  more  to  be  so  much  as  thought  of) — she  looks  only  at  her 
mistress,  with  intense,  servile,  watchful  love.  Faithful,  not 
in  these  days  of  fear  only,  but  hitherto  in  all  her  life,  and 
afterwards  forever. 

After  you  have  seen  it  enough,  look  also  for  a  little  while  at 
Angelico's  Marriage  and  Death  of  the  Virgin,  in  the  same 
room  ;  you  may  afterwards  associate  the  three  pictures  always 
together  in  your  mind.  And,  looking  at  nothing  else  to-day 
in  the  Uffizi,  let  us  go  back  to  Giotto's  chapel. 

We  must  begin  with  this  work  on  our  left  hand,  the  Death 
of  St.  Francis  ;  for  it  is  the  key  to  all  the  rest.  Let  us  hear 
first  what  Mr.  Crowe  directs  us  to  think  of  it.  "In  the  com- 
position of  this  scene,  Giotto  produced  a  masterpiece,  which 
served  as  a  model  but  too  often  feebly  imitated  by  his  suc- 
cessors. Good  arrangement,  variety  of  character  and  ex- 
pression in  the  heads,  unity  and  harmony  in  the  whole,  make 
this  an  exceptional  work  of  its  kind.  As  a  composition, 
worthy  of  the  fourteenth  century,  Ghirlandajo  and  Benedetto 
da  Majano  both  imitated,  without  being  able  to  improve  it. 
No  painter  ever  produced  its  equal  except  Raphael ;  nor  could 
a  better  be  created  except  in  so  far  as  regards  improvement 
in  the  mere  rendering  of  form." 


40 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


To  these  inspiring  observations  by  the  rapturous  Crowe, 
more  cautious  Cavalcasella  1  appends  a  refrigerating  note, 
saying,  "The  St.  Francis  in  the  glory  is  new,  but  the  angels 
are  in  part  preserved.  The  rest  has  all  been  more  or  less  re- 
touched ;  and  no  judgment  can  be  given  as  to  the  colour  of 
this — or  any  other  (!) — of  these  works." 

You  are,  therefore — instructed  reader — called  upon  to  ad- 
mire a  piece  of  art  which  no  painter  ever  produced  the  equal  of 
except  Raphael ;  but  it  is  unhappily  deficient,  according  to 
Crowe,  in  the  "mere  rendering  of  form  "  ;  and,  according  to 
Sign  or  Cavalcasella,  "  no  opinion  can  be  given  as  to  its  colour." 

Warned  thus  of  the  extensive  places  where  the  ice  is  dan- 
gerous, and  forbidden  to  look  here  either  for  form  or  colour, 
you  are  to  admire  "  the  variety  of  character  and  expression  in 
the  heads."  I  do  not  myself  know  how  these  are  to  be  given 
without  form  or  colour  ;  but  there  appears  to  me,  in  my  inno- 
cence, to  be  only  one  head  in  the  whole  picture,  drawn  up 
and  down  in  different  positions. 

The  "unity  and  harmony"  of  the  whole — which  make  this 
an  exceptional  work  of  its  kind — mean,  I  suppose,  its  general 
look  of  having  been  painted  out  of  a  scavenger's  cart ;  and  so 
Ave  are  reduced  to  the  last  article  of  our  creed  according  to 
Crowe, — 

"  In  the  composition  of  this  scene  Giotto  produced  a  mas- 
terpiece." 

Well,  possibly.  The  question  is,  What  you  mean  by  '  com- 
position.' Which,  putting  modern  criticism  now  out  of  our 
way,  I  will  ask  the  reader  to  think,  in  front  of  this  wreck  of 
Giotto,  with  some  care. 

Was  it,  in  the  first  place,  to  Giotto,  think  you,  the  "  com- 
position of  a  scene,"  or  the  conception  of  a  fact  ?  You  prob- 
ably, if  a  fashionable  person,  have  seen  the  apotheosis  of  Mar- 
garet in  Faust  ?    You  know  what  care  is  taken,  nightly,  in 

1 1  venture  to  attribute  the  wiser  note  to  Signor  Cavalcasella  because  I 
have  every  reason  to  put  real  confidence  in  his  judgment.  But  it  was 
impossible  for  any  man,  engaged  as  he  is,  to  go  over  all  the  ground  cov- 
ered by  so  extensive  a  piece  of  critical  work  as  these  three  volumes  con- 
tain, with  effective  attention. 


BEFORE  THE  SO  LI)  AN. 


41 


the  composition  of  that  scene, — how  the  draperies  are  arranged 
for  it ;  the  lights  turned  off,  and  on  ;  the  fiddlestrings  taxed 
for  their  utmost  tenderness ;  the  bassoons  exhorted  to  a 
grievous  solemnity. 

You  don't  believe,  however,  that  any  real  soul  of  a  Margaret 
ever  appeared  to  any  mortal  in  that  manner  ? 

Here  is  an  apotheosis  also.  Composed  ! — yes  ;  figures  high 
on  the  right  and  left,  low  in  the  middle,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

But  the  important  questions  seem  to  me,  Was  there  ever 
a  St.  Francis  t—did  he  ever  receive  stigmata? — did  his  soul 
go  up  to  heaven — did  any  monk  see  it  rising — and  did  Giotto 
mean  to  tell  us  so  ?  If  you  will  be  good  enough  to  settle  these 
few  small  points  in  your  mind  first,  the  "  composition  "  will 
take  a  wholly  different  aspect  to  you,  according  to  your  answer. 

Nor  does  it  seem  doubtful  to  me  what  your  answer,  after 
investigation  made,  must  be. 

There  assuredly  was  a  St.  Francis,  whose  life  and  works  you 
had  better  study  than  either  to-day's  Galignani,  or  whatever, 
this  year,  may  supply  the  place  of  the  Tichborne  case,  in  pub- 
lic interest. 

His  reception  of  the  stigmata  is,  perhaps,  a  marvellous  in- 
stance of  the  power  of  imagination  over  physical  conditions  ; 
perhaps  an  equally  marvellous  instance  of  the  swift  change  of 
metaphor  into  tradition  ;  but  assuredly,  and  beyond  dispute, 
one  of  the  most  influential,  significant,  and  instructive  tradi- 
tions possessed  by  the  Church  of  Christ.  And,  that,  if  ever 
soul  rose  to  heaven  from  the  dead  body,  his  soul  did  so  rise, 
is  equally  sure. 

And,  finally,  Giotto  believed  that  all  he  was  called  on  to 
represent,  concerning  St.  Francis,  really  had  taken  place,  just 
as  surely  as  you,  if  you  are  a  Christian,  believe  that  Christ 
died  and  rose  again  ;  and  he  represents  it  with  all  fidelit}7-  and 
passion  :  but,  as  I  just  now  said,  he  is  a  man  of  supreme  com- 
mon sense  ; — has  as  much  humour  and  clearness  of  sight  as 
Chaucer,  and  as  much  dislike  of  falsehood  in  clergy,  or  in  pro- 
fessedly pious  people  :  and  in  his  gravest  moments  he  will  still 
see  and  say  truly  that  what  is  fat,  is  fat— and  what  is  lean, 
lean — and  what  is  hollow,  empty. 


42 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


His  great  point,  however,  in  this  fresco,  is  the  assertion  of 
the  reality  of  the  stigmata  against  all  question.  There  is  not 
only  one  St.  Thomas  to  be  convinced  ;  there  are  five  ; — one  to 
each  wound.  Of  these,  four  are  intent  only  on  satisfying 
their  curiosity,  and  are  peering  or  probing  ;  one  only  kisses 
the  hand  he  has  lifted.  The  rest  of  the  picture  never  was 
much  more  than  a  grey  drawing  of  a  noble  burial  service  ;  of 
all  concerned  in  which,  one  monk,  only,  is  worthy  to  see  the 
soul  taken  up  to  heaven  ;  and  he  is  evidently  just  the  monk 
whom  nobody  in  the  convent  thought  anything  of.  (His  face 
is  all  repainted  ;  but  one  can  gather  this  much,  or  little,  out 
of  it,  yet.) 

Of  the  composition,  or  "  unity  and  harmony  of  the  whole/' 
as  a  burial  service,  we  may  better  judge  after  we  have  looked 
at  the  brighter  picture  of  St.  Francis's  Birth — birth  spiritual, 
that  is  to  say,  to  his  native  heaven  ;  the  uppermost,  namely, 
of  the  three  subjects  on  this  side  of  the  chapel.  It  is  en- 
tirely characteristic  of  Giotto  ;  much  of  it  by  his  hand — all 
of  it  beautiful.  All  important  matters  to  be  known  of  Giotto 
you  may  know  from  this  fresco. 

'  But  we  can't  see  it,  even  with  our  opera-glasses,  but  all 
foreshortened  and  spoiled.  What  is  the  use  of  lecturing  us 
on  this  ? • 

That  is  precisely  the  first  point  which  is  essentially  Giot- 
tesque  in  it  ;  its  being  so  out  of  the  way  !  It  is  this  which 
makes  it  a  perfect  specimen  of  the  master.  I  will  tell  you  next 
something  about  a  work  of  his  which  you  can  see  perfectly, 
just  behind  you  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  wall ;  but  that  you 
have  half  to  break  your  neck  to  look  at  this  one,  is  the  very 
first  thing  I  want  you  to  feel. 

It  is  a  characteristic— (as  far  as  I  know,  quite  a  universal 
one) — of  the  greatest  masters,  that  they  never  expect  you  to 
look  at  them  ;— seem  always  rather  surprised  if  you  want  to  ; 
and  not  overpleased.  Tell  them  you  are  going  to  hang  their 
picture  at  the  upper  end  of  the  table  at  the  next  great  City 
dinner,  and  that  Mr.  So  and  So  will  make  a  speech  about  it ; 
you  produce  no  impression  upon  them  whatever,  or  an  unfa- 
vourable one.    The  chances  are  ten  to  one  they  send  you  the 


BEFORE  THE  SOLDAK 


43 


most  rubbishy  thing  they  can  find  in  their  lumber-room.  But 
send  for  one  of  them  in  a  hurry,  and  tell  him  the  rats  have 
gnawed  a  nasty  hole  behind  the  parlor  door,  and  you  want  it 
plastered  and  painted  over  ; — and  he  does  you  a  masterpiece 
which  the  world  will  peep  behind  your  door  to  look  at  for 
ever. 

I  have  no  time  to  tell  you  why  this  is  so  ;  nor  do  I  know 
why,  altogether  ;  but  so  it  is. 

Giotto,  then,  is  sent  for,  to  paint  this  high  chapel :  I  am  not 
sure  if  he  chose  his  own  subjects  from  the  life  of  St.  Francis : 
I  think  so, — but  of  course  can't  reason  on  the  guess  securely. 
At  all  events,  he  would  have  much  of  his  own  way  in  the 
matter. 

Now  you  must  observe  that  painting  a  Gothic  chapel  rightly 
is  just  the  same  thing  as  painting  a  Greek  vase  rightly.  The 
chapel  is  merely  the  vase  turned  upside-down,  and  outside-in. 
The  principles  of  decoration  are  exactly  the  same.  Your 
decoration  is  to  be  proportioned  to  the  size  of  your  vase  ;  to 
be  together  delightful  when  you  look  at  the  cup,  or  chapel,  as 
a  whole  ;  to  be  various  and  entertaining  when  you  turn  the 
cup  round  ;  (you  turn  yourself  round  in  the  chapel ;)  and  to 
bend  its  heads  and  necks  of  figures  about,  as  it  best  can,  over 
the  hollows,  and  ins  and  outs,  so  that  anyhow,  whether  too 
long  or  too  short — possible  or  impossible — they  may  be  living, 
and  full  of  grace.  You  will  also  please  take  it  on  my  word  to- 
day— in  another  morning  walk  you  shall  have  proof  of  it — 
that  Giotto  was  a  pure  Etruscan-Greek  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury :  converted  indeed  to  worship  St.  Francis  instead  of 
Heracles  ;  but  as  far  as  vase-painting  goes,  precisely  the 
Etruscan  he  was  before.  This  is  nothing  else  than  a  large, 
beautiful,  coloured  Etruscan  vase  you  have  got,  inverted  over 
your  heads  like  a  diving-bell. 1 

I I  observe  that  recent  criticism  is  engaged  in  proving  all  Etruscan 
vases  to  be  of  late  manufacture,  in  imitation  of  archaic  Greek.  And  I 
therefore  must  briefly  anticipate  a  statement  which  I  shall  have  to  en- 
force in  following  letters.  Etruscan  art  remains  in  its  own  Italian  val- 
leys, of  the  Arno  and  upper  Tiber,  in  one  unbroken  series  of  work, 
from  the  seventh  century  before  Christ,  to  this  hour,  when  the  country 


44 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


Accordingly,  after  the  quatrefoil  ornamentation  of  the  top 
of  the  bell,  you  get  two  spaces  at  the  sides  under  arches,  very 
difficult  to  cramp  one's  picture  into,  if  it  is  to  be  a  picture 
only  ;  but  entirety  provocative  of  our  old  Etruscan  instinct  of 
ornament.  And,  spurred  by  the  difficulty,  and  pleased  by  the 
national  character  of  it,  we  put  our  best  work  into  these 
arches,  utterly  neglectful  of  the  public  below, — who  will  see 
the  white  and  red  and  blue  spaces,  at  any  rate,  which  is  all 
they  will  want  to  see,  thinks  Giotto,  if  he  ever  looks  down  from 
his  scaffold. 

Take  the  highest  compartment,  then,  on  the  left,  looking 
towards  the  window.  It  was  wholly  impossible  to  get  the  arch 
filled  with  figures,  unless  they  stood  on  each  other's  heads  ; 
so  Giotto  ekes  it  out  with  a  piece  of  fine  architecture.  Ka- 
phael,  in  the  Sposalizio,  does  the  same,  for  pleasure. 

Then  he  puts  two  dainty  little  white  figures,  bending,  on 
each  flank,  to  stop  up  his  corners.  But  he  puts  the  taller  in- 
side on  the  right,  and  outside  on  the  left.  And  he  puts  his 
Greek  chorus  of  observant  and  moralizing  persons  on  each 
side  of  his  main  action. 

Then  he  puts  one  Choragus — or  leader  of  chorus,  support- 
ing the  main  action — on  each  side.  Then  he  puts  the  main 
action  in  the  middle — which  is  a  quarrel  about  that  white  bone 
of  contention  in  the  centre.  Choragus  on  the  right,  who  sees 
that  the  bishop  is  going  to  have  the  best  of  it,  backs  him 
serenely.    Choragus  on  the  left,  who  sees  that  his  impetuous 

whitewasher  still  scratches  his  plaster  in  Etruscan  patterns.  All  Flor- 
entine work  of  the  finest  kind — Luca  della  Bobbia's,  Ghiberti's,  Dona- 
tello's,  Fiiippo  Lippi's,  Botticelli's,  Fra  Angelico  s — is  absolutely  pure 
Etruscan,  merely  changing  its  subjects,  and  representing  the  Virgin  in- 
stead of  Athena,  and  Christ  instead  of  Jupiter.  Every  line  of  the 
Florentine  chisel  in  the  fifteenth  century  is  based  on  national  principles 
of  art  which  existed  in  the  seventh  century  before  Christ ;  and  Angel- 
ico, in  his  convent  of  St.  Dominic,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  of  Fesole,  is 
as  true  an  Etruscan  as  the  builder  who  laid  the  rude  stones  of  the  wall 
along  its  crest— of  which  modern  civilization  has  used  the  only  arch 
that  remained  for  cheap  building  stone.  Luckily,  I  sketched  it  in  1845 : 
but  alas,  too  carelessly, — never  conceiving  of  the  brutalities  of  modern 
Italy  as  possible. 


BEFORE  THE  SOLD  AN. 


45 


friend  is  going  to  get  the  worst  of  it,  is  pulling  him  back,  and 
trying  to  keep  him  quiet.  The  subject  of  the  picture,  which, 
after  you  are  quite  sure  it  is  good  as  a  decoration,  but  not  till 
then,  you  may  be  allowed  to  understand,  is  the  following. 
One  of  St.  Francis's  three  great  virtues  being  Obedience,  he 
begins  his  spiritual  life  by  quarreling  with  his  father.  He,  I 
suppose  in  modern  terms  I  should  say,  '  commercially  invests 
some  of  his  father's  goods  in  charity.  His  father  objects  to 
that  investment ;  on  which  St.  Francis  runs  away,  taking  what 
he  can  find  about  the  house  along  with  him.  His  father  fol- 
lows to  claim  his  property,  but  finds  it  is  all  gone,  already  ; 
and  that  St,  Francis  has  made  friends  with  the  Bishop  of 
Assisi.  His  father  flies  into  an  indecent  passion,  and  declares 
he  will  disinherit  him  ;  on  which  St.  Francis  then  and  there 
takes  all  his  clothes  off,  throws  them  frantically  in  his  father's 
face,  and  says  he  has  nothing  more  to  do  with  clothes  or 
father.  The  good  Bishop,  in  tears  of  admiration,  embraces  St. 
Francis,  and  covers  him  with  his  own  mantle. 

I  have  read  the  picture  to  you  as,  if  Mr.  Spurgeon  knew 
anything  about  art,  Mr.  Spurgeon  would  read  it, — that  is  to 
say,  from  the  plain,  common  sense,  Protestant  side.  If  you 
are  content  with  that  view  of  it,  you  may  leave  the  chapel, 
and,  as  far  as  any  study  of  history  is  concerned,  Florence 
also  ;  for  you  can  never  know  anything  either  about  Giotto, 
or  her. 

Yet  do  not  be  afraid  of  my  re-reading  it  to  you  from  the 
mystic,  nonsensical,  and  Papistical  side.  I  am  going  to  read 
it  to  you — if  after  many  and  many  a  year  of  thought,  I  am 
able — as  Giotto  meant  it ;  Giotto  being,  as  far  as  we  know, 
then  the  man  of  strongest  brain  and  hand  in  Florence  ;  the 
best  friend  of  the  best  religious  poet  of  the  world  ;  and  wide- 
ly differing,  as  his  friend  did  also,  in  his  views  of  the  world, 
from  either  Mr.  Spurgeon,  or  Pius  IX. 

The  first  duty  of  a  child  is  to  obey  its  father  and  mother ; 
as  the  first  duty  of  a  citizen  to  obey  the  laws  of  his  state. 
And  this  duty  is  so  strict  that  I  believe  the  only  limits  to  it 
are  those  fixed  by  Isaac  and  Iphigenia.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  father  and  mother  have  also  a  fixed  duty  to  the  child 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


— not  to  provoke  it  to  wrath.  I  have  never  heard  this  text 
explained  to  fathers  and  mothers  from  the  pulpit,  which  is 
curious.  For  it  appears  to  me  that  God  will  expect  the  pa- 
rents to  understand  their  duty  to  their  children,  better  even 
than  children  can  be  expected  to  know  their  duty  to  their 
parents. 

But  farther.  A  child's  duty  is  to  obey  its  parents.  It  is 
never  said  anywhere  in  the  Bible,  and  never  was  yet  said  in 
any  good  or  wise  book,  that  a  man's,  or  woman's,  is.  When, 
precisely,  a  child  becomes  a  man  or  a  woman,  it  can  no  more 
be  said,  than  when  it  should  first  stand  on  its  legs.  But  a 
time  assuredly  comes  when  it  should.  In  great  states,  chil- 
dren are  always  trying  to  remain  children,  and  the  parents 
wanting  to  make  men  and  women  of  them.  In  vile  states, 
the  children  are  always  wanting  to  be  men  and  women,  and 
the  parents  to  keep  them  children.  It  may  be — and  happy 
the  house  in  which  it  is  so — that  the  father's  at  least  equal 
intellect,  and  older  experience,  may  remain  to  the  end  of  his 
life  a  law  to  his  children,  not  of  force,  but  of  perfect  guidance, 
with  perfect  love.  Barely  it  is  so  ;  not  often  possible.  It  is 
as  natural  for  the  old  to  be  prejudiced  as  for  the  young  to  be 
presumptuous ;  and,  in  the  change  of  centuries,  each  gener- 
ation has  something  to  judge  of  for  itself. 

But  this  scene,  on  which  Giotto  has  dwelt  with  so  great 
force,  represents,  not  the  child's  assertion  of  his  independence, 
but  his  adoption  of  another  Father. 

You  must  not  confuse  the  desire  of  this  boy  of  Assisi  to 
obey  God  rather  than  man,  with  the  desire  of  your  young 
cockney  Hopeful  to  have  a  latch-key,  and  a  separate  allowance. 

No  point  of  duty  has  been  more  miserably  warped  and  per- 
verted by  false  priests,  in  all  churches,  than  this  duty  of  the 
young  to  choose  whom  they  will  serve.  But  the  duty  itself 
does  not  the  less  exist ;  and  if  there  be  any  truth  in  Chris- 
tianity at  all,  there  will  come,  for  all  true  disciples,  a  time 
when  they  have  to  take  that  saying  to  heart,  "He  that  loveth 
father  or  mother  more  than  me,  is  not  worthy  of  me." 

!  Loveth  9 — observe.  There  is  no  talk  of  disobeying  fathers 
or  mothers  whom  you  do  not  love,  or  of  running  away  from  a 


BEFORE  THE  SOLD  AN. 


47 


home  where  you  would  rather  not  stay.  But  to  leave  the 
home  which  is  your  peace,  and  to  be  at  enmity  with  those  who 
are  most  dear  to  you, — this,  if  there  be  meaning  in  Christ's 
words,  one  day  or  other  will  be  demanded  of  His  true  followers. 

And  there  is  meaning  in  Christ's  words.  Whatever  misuse 
may  have  been  made  of  them, — whatever  false  prophets — and 
Heaven  knows  there  have  been  many — have  called  the  young- 
children  to  them,  not  to  bless,  but  to  curse,  the  assured  fact 
remains,  that  if  you  will  obey  Gocl,  there  will  come  a  moment 
when  the  voice  of  man  will  be  raised,  with  all  its  holiest 
natural  authority,  against  you.  The  friend  and  the  wise 
adviser — the  brother  and  the  sister — the  father  and  the 
master — the  entire  voice  of  your  prudent  and  keen-sighted 
acquaintance — the  entire  weight  of  the  scornful  stupidity  of 
the  vulgar  world — for  once,  they  will  be  against  you,  all  at 
one.  You  have  to  obey  God  rather  than  man.  The  human 
race,  with  all  its  wisdom  and  love,  all  its  indignation  and 
folly,  on  one  side, — God  alone  on  the  other.  You  have  to 
choose. 

That  is  the  meaning  of  St.  Francis's  renouncing  his  inherit- 
ance ;  and  it  is  the  beginning  of  Giotto's  gospel  of  Works. 
Unless  this  hardest  of  deeds  be  done  first, — this  inheritance 
of  mammon  and  the  world  cast  away, — all  other  deeds  are  use- 
less. You  cannot  serve,  cannot  obey,  God  and  mammon.  No 
charities,  no  obediences,  no  self-denials,  are  of  any  use,  while 
you  are  still  at  heart  in  conformity  with  the  world.  You  go 
to  church,  because  the  world  goes.  You  keep  Sunday,  be- 
cause your  neighbours  keep  it.  But  you  dress  ridiculously, 
because  your  neighbours  ask  it ;  and  you  dare  not  do  a  rough 
piece  of  work,  because  your  neighbours  despise  it.  You  must 
renounce  your  neighbour,  in  his  riches  and  pride,  and  remem- 
ber him  in  his  distress.    That  is  St.  Francis's  'disobedience.' 

And  now  you  can  understand  the  relation  of  subjects 
throughout  the  chapel,  and  Giotto's  choice  of  them. 

The  roof  has  the  symbols  of  the  three  virtues  of  labour — 
Poverty,  Chastity,  Obedience. 

A.  Highest  on  the  left  side,  looking  to  the  window.  The 
life  of  St.  Francis  begins  in  his  renunciation  of  the  world. 


48 


M0IW1NGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


B.  Highest  on  the  right  side.  His  new  life  is  approved  and 
ordained  by  the  authority  of  the  church. 

C.  Central  on  the  left  side.  He  preaches  to  his  own  dis- 
ciples. 

D.  Central  on  the  right  side.    He  preaches  to  the  heathen. 

E.  Lowest  on  the  left  side.    His  burial. 

F.  Lowest  on  the  right  side.    His  power  after  death. 
Besides  these  six  subjects,  there  are,  on  the  sides  of  the 

window,  the  four  great  Franciscan  saints,  St.  Louis  of  France, 
Sfc.  Louis  of  Toulouse,  St.  Clare,  and  St.  Elizabeth  of  Hun- 
gary. 

So  that  you  have  in  the  whole  series  this  much  given  you 
to  think  of :  first,  the  law  of  St.  Francis's  conscience  ;  then, 
his  own  adoption  of  it ;  then,  the  ratification  of  it  by  the 
Christian  Church  ;  then,  his  preaching  it  in  life  ;  then,  his 
preaching  it  in  death  ;  and  then,  the  fruits  of  it  in  his  dis- 
ciples. 

I  have  only  been  able  myself  to  examine,  or  in  any  right 
sense  to  see,  of  this  code  of  subjects,  the  first,  second,  fourth, 
and  the  St.  Louis  and  Elizabeth.  I  will  ask  you  only  to  look 
at  two  more  of  them,  namely,  St.  Francis  before  the  Soldan, 
midmost  on  your  right,  and  St.  Louis. 

The  Soldan,  with  an  ordinary  opera-glass,  you  may  see 
clearly  enough  ;  and  I  think  it  will  be  first  well  to  notice 
some  technical  points  in  it. 

If  the  little  virgin  on  the  stairs  of  the  temple  reminded  you 
of  one  composition  of  Titian's,  this  Soldan  should,  I  think, 
remind  you  of  all  that  is  greatest  in  Titian ;  so  forcibly,  in- 
deed, that  for  my  own  part,  if  I  had  been  told  that  a  careful 
early  fresco  by  Titian  had  been  recovered  in  Santa  Croce,  I 
could  have  believed  both  report  and  my  own  eyes,  more 
quickly  than  I  have  been  able  to  admit  that  this  is  indeed  by 
Giotto.  It  is  so  great  that — had  its  principles  been  under- 
stood— there  was  in  reality  nothing  more  to  be  taught  of  art 
in  Italy  ;  nothing  to  be  invented  afterwards,  except  Dutch 
effects  of  light. 

That  there  is  no  '  effect  of  light'  here  arrived  at,  I  beg  you 
at  once  to  observe  as  a  most  important  lesson.    The  subject 


BEFORE  THE  SOLD  AN. 


49 


is  St.  Francis  challenging  the  Soldan's  Magi, — fire-worship- 
pers— to  pass  with  him  through  the  fire,  which  is  blazing  red 
at  his  feet.  It  is  so  hot  that  the  two  Magi  on  the  other  side 
of  the  throne  shield  their  faces.  But  it  is  represented  simply 
as  a  red  mass  of  writhing  forms  of  flame  ;  and  casts  no  fire- 
light whatever.  There  is  no  ruby  colour  on  anybody's  nose  : 
there  are  no  black  shadows  under  anybody's  chin  ;  there  are 
no  Eembrandtesque  gradations  of  gloom,  or  glitterings  of 
sword-hilt  and  armour. 

Is  this  ignorance,  think  you,  in  Giotto,  and  pure  artless- 
ness  ?  He  wTas  now  a  man  in  middle  life,  having  passed  all 
his  days  in  painting,  and  professedly,  and  almost  conten- 
tiously,  painting  things  as  he  saw  them.  Do  you  suppose 
he  never  saw  fire  cast  firelight  ? — and  he  the  friend  of  Dante  ! 
who  of  all  poets  is  the  most  subtle  in  his  sense  of  every  kind 
of  effect  of  light — though  he  has  been  thought  by  the  public 
to  knowthat  of  fire  only.  Again  and  again,  his  ghosts  won- 
der that  there  is  no  shadow  cast  by  Dante's  body  ;  and  is  the 
poet's  friend,  because  a  painter,  likely,  therefore,  not  to  have 
known  that  mortal  substance  casts  shadow,  and  terrestrial 
flame,  light  ?  Nay,  the  passage  in  the  e  Purgatorio '  where 
the  shadows  from  the  morning  sunshine  make  the  flames 
redder,  reaches  the  accuracy  of  Newtonian  science  ;  and  does 
Giotto,  think  you,  all  the  while,  see  nothing  of  the  sort  ? 

The  fact  was,  he  saw  light  so  intensely  that  he  never  for  an 
instant  thought  of  painting  it.  He  knew  that  to  paint  the  sun 
was  as  impossible  as  to  stop  it ;  and  he  was  no  trickster,  try- 
ing  to  find  out  ways  of  seeming  to  do  what  he  did  not. 
I  can  paint  a  rose, — yes  ;  and  I  will.  I  can't  paint  a  red-hot 
coal ;  and  I  won't  try  to,  nor  seem  to.  This  was  just  as  nat- 
ural and  certain  a  process  of  thinking  with  him,  as  the  hon- 
esty of  it,  and  true  science,  were  impossible  to  the  false  paint- 
ers of  the  sixteenth  century. 

Nevertheless,  what  his  art  can  honestly  do  to  make  you  feel 
as  much  as  he  wants  you  to  feel,  about  this  fire,  he  will  do  ; 
and  that  studiously.  That  the  fire  be  luminous  or  not,  is  no 
matter  just  now.  But  that  the  fire  is  hot,  he  would  have  you 
to  know.    Now,  will  you  notice  what  colours  he  has  used  in 


50 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


the  whole  picture.  First,  the  blue  background,  necessary  to 
unite  it  with  the  other  three  subjects,  is  reduced  to  the  small- 
est possible  space.  St.  Francis  must  be  in  grey,  for  that  is 
his  dress  ;  also  the  attendant  of  one  of  the  Magi  is  in  grey  ; 
but  so  warm,  that,  if  you  saw  it  by  itself,  you  wrould  call  it 
brown.  The  shadow  behind  the  throne,  which  Giotto  knows 
he  can  paint,  and  therefore  does,  is  grey  also.  The  rest  of  the 
picture  1  in  at  least  six-sevenths  of  its  area — is  either  crimson, 
gold,  orange,  purple,  or  white,  all  as  warm  as  Giotto  could 
paint  them  ;  and  set  off  by  minute  spaces  only  of  intense 
black, — the  Soldan's  fillet  at  the  shoulders,  his  eyes,  beard, 
and  the  points  necessary  in  the  golden  pattern  behind.  And 
the  whole  picture  is  one  glow. 

A  single  glance  round  at  the  other  subjects  will  convince 
you  of  the  special  character  in  this ;  but  you  will  recognize 
also  that  the  four  upper  subjects,  in  which  St.  Francis's  life  and 
zeal  are  shown,  are  all  in  comparatively  warm  colours,  while 
the  two  lower  ones — of  the  death,  and  the  visions  after  it — 
have  been  kept  as  definitely  sad  and  cold. 

Necessarily,  you  might  think,  being  full  of  monks'  dresses. 
Not  so.  Was  there  any  need  for  Giotto  to  have  put  the  priest 
at  the  foot  of  the  dead  body,  with  the  black  banner  stooped 
over  it  in  the  shape  of  a  grave  ?  Might  he  not,  had  he  chosen, 
in  either  fresco,  have  made  the  celestial  visions  brighter? 
Might  not  St.  Francis  have  appeared  in  the  centre  of  a  celes- 
tial glory  to  the  dreaming  Pope,  or  his  soul  been  seen  of  the 
poor  monk,  rising  through  more  radiant  clouds  ?  Look,  how- 
ever, how  radiant,  in  the  small  space  allowed  out  of  the  blue, 
they  are  in  reality.  You  cannot  anywhere  see  a  lovelier  piece 
of  Giottesque  colour,  though  here,  you  have  to  mourn  over  the 
smallness  of  the  piece,  and  its  isolation.  For  the  face  of  St. 
Francis  himself  is  repainted,  and  all  the  blue  sky;  but  the 
clouds  and  four  sustaining  angels  are  hardly  retouched  at  all, 
and  their  iridescent  and  exquisitely  graceful  wings  are  left  witli 
really  very  tender  and  delicate  care  by  the  restorer  of  the  sky. 
And  no  one  but  Giotto  or  Turner  could  have  painted  them. 

1  The  floor  has  been  repainted  ;  hut  though  its  grey  is  now  heavy  and 
cold,  it  cannot  kill  the  splendour  of  the  rest. 


BEFORE  THE  SOLDAK 


51 


For  in  all  his  use  of  opalescent  and  warm  colour,  Giotto  is 
exactly  like  Turner,  as,  in  his  swift  expression al  power,  he  is 
like  Gainsborough.  All  the  other  Italian  religious  painters 
work  out  their  expression  with  toil ;  he  only  can  give  it  with  a 
touch.  All  the  ether  great  Italian  colourists  see  only  the 
beauty  of  colour,  but  Giotto  also  its  brightness.  And  none 
of  the  others,  except  Tintoret,  understood  to  the  full  its  sym- 
bolic power  ;  but  with  those — Giotto  and  Tintoret — there  is 
always,  not  only  a  colour  harmony,  but  a  colour  secret.  It  is 
not  merely  to  make  the  picture  glow,  but  to  remind  you  that 
St.  Francis  preaches  to  a  fire-worshipping  king,  that  Giotto 
covers  the  wall  with  purple  and  scarlet ; — and  above,  in  the 
dispute  at  Assisi,  the  angry  father  is  dressed  in  red,  varying 
like  passion  ;  and  the  robe  with  which  his  protector  embraces 
St.  Francis,  blue,  symbolizing  the  peace  of  Heaven.  Of 
course  certain  conventional  colours  were  traditionally  em- 
ployed by  all  painters  ;  but  only  Giotto  and  Tintoret  invent  a 
symbolism  of  their  own  for  every  picture.  Thus  in  Tintoret's 
picture  of  the  fall  of  the  manna,  the  figure  of  God  the  Father 
is  entirely  robed  in  white,  contrary  to  all  received  custom  :  in 
that  of  Moses  striking  the  rock,  it  is  surrounded  by  a  rain- 
bow. Of  Giotto's  symbolism  in  colour  at  Assisi,  I  have  given 
account  elsewhere.1 

You  are  not  to  think,  therefore,  the  difference  between  the 
colour  of  the  upper  and  lower  frescos  unintentional.  The 
life  of  St.  Francis  was  always  full  of  joy  and  triumph.  His 
death,  in  great  suffering,  weariness,  and  extreme  humility. 
The  tradition  of  him  reverses  that  of  Elijah  ;  living,  he  is  seen 
in  the  chariot  of  fire  ;  dying,  he  submits  to  more  than  the 
common  sorrow  of  death. 

There  is,  however,  much  more  than  a  difference  in  colour 
between  the  upper  and  lower  frescos.  There  is  a  difference 
in  manner  which  I  cannot  account  for  ;  and  above  all,  a  very 
singular  difference  in  skill, — indicating,  it  seems  to  me,  that 
the  two  lower  were  done  long  before  the  others,  and  after- 
wards united  and  harmonized  with  them.  It  is  of  no  interest 
to  the  general  reader  to  pursue  this  question  ;  but  one  point 

1  1  Fors  Clavigera '  tor  September,  1874. 


52 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


he  can  notice  quickly,  that  the  lower  frescos  depend  much  on 
a  mere  black  or  brown  outline  of  the  features,  while  the  facea 
above  are  evenly  and  completely  painted  in  the  most  accom- 
plished Venetian  manner : — and  another,  respecting  the  man- 
agement of  the  draperies,  contains  much  interest  for  us. 

Giotto  never  succeeded,  to  the  very  end  of  his  days,  in  rep- 
resenting a  figure  lying  down,  and  at  ease.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  curious  points  in  all  his  character.  Just  the  thing  which 
he  could  study  from  nature  without  the  smallest  hindrance,  is 
the  thing  he  never  can  paint ;  while  subtleties  of  form  and 
gesture,  which  depend  absolutely  on  their  momentariness,  and 
actions  in  which  no  model  can  stay  for  an  instant,  he  seizes 
with  infallible  accuracy. 

Not  only  has  the  sleeping  Pope,  in  the  right  hand  lower 
fresco,  his  head  laid  uncomfortably  on  his  pillow,  but  all  the 
clothes  on  him  are  in  awkward  angles,  even  Giotto's  instinct 
for  lines  of  drapery  failing  him  altogether  when  he  has  to  lay 
it  on  a  reposing  figure.  But  look  at  the  folds  of  the  Soldan's 
robe  over  his  knees.  None  could  be  more  beautiful  or  right ; 
and  it  is  to  me  wholly  inconceivable  that  the  two  paintings 
should  be  within  even  twenty  years  of  each  other  in  date — the 
skill  in  the  upper  one  is  so  supremely  greater.  We  shall  find, 
however,  more  than  mere  truth  in  its  casts  of  drapery,  if  we 
examine  them. 

They  are  so  simply  right,  in  the  figure  of  the  Soldan,  that 
we  do  not  think  of  them  ; — we  see  him  only,  not  his  dress. 
But  we  see  dress  first,  in  the  figures  of  the  discomfited  Magi. 
Very  fully  draped  personages  these,  indeed, — with  trains,  it 
appears,  four  yards  long,  and  bearers  of  them. 

The  one  nearest  the  Soldan  has  done  his  devoir  as  bravely 
as  he  could  ;  would  fain  go  up  to  the  fire,  but  cannot ;  is 
forced  to  shield  his  face,  though  he  has  not  turned  back.  Gi- 
otto gives  him  full  sweeping  breadth  of  fold  ;  what  dignity  he 
can  ; — a  man  faithful  to  his  profession,  at  all  events. 

The  next  one  has  no  such  courage.  Collapsed  altogether, 
he  has  nothing  more  to  say  for  himself  or  his  creed.  Giotto 
hangs  the  cloak  upon  him,  in  Ghirlandajo's  fashion,  as  from  a 
peg,  but  with  ludicrous  narrowness  of  fold.    Literally,  he  is 


BEFORE  THE  SOLD  AM 


53 


a  '  shut-up  '  Magus — closed  like  a  fan.  He  turns  his  head 
away,  hopelessly.  And  the  last  Magus  shows  nothing  but  his 
back,  disappearing  through  the  door. 

Opposed  to  them,  in  a  modern  work,  you  would  have  had  a 
St.  Francis  standing  as  high  as  he  could  in  his  sandals,  con- 
temptuous, denunciatory  ;  magnificently  showing  the  Magi 
the  door.  No  such  thing,  says  Giotto.  A  somewhat  mean 
man  ;  disappointing  enough  in  presence — even  in  feature  ;  I 
do  not  understand  his  gesture,  pointing  to  his  forehead — per- 
haps  meaning,  'my  life,  or  my  head,  upon  the  truth  of  this.' 
The  attendant  monk  behind  him  is  terror-struck  ;  but  will  fol- 
low his  master.  The  dark  Moorish  servants  of  the  Magi  show 
no  emotion — will  arrange  their  masters'  trains  as  usual,  and 
decorously  sustain  their  retreat. 

Lastly,  for  the  Soldan  himself.  In  a  modern  work,  you 
would  assuredly  have  had  him  staring  at  St.  Francis  with  his 
eyebrows  up,  or  frowning  thunderously  at  his  Magi,  with 
them  bent  as  far  down  as  they  would  go.  Neither  of  these 
aspects  does  he  bear,  according  to  Giotto.  A  perfect  gentle- 
man and  king,  he  looks  on  his  Magi  with  quiet  eyes  of  deci- 
sion ;  he  is  much  the  noblest  person  in  the  room— though  an 
infidel,  the  true  hero  of  the  scene,  far  more  than  St.  Francis. 
It  is  evidently  the  Soldan  whom  Giotto  wants  you  to  think  of 
mainly,  in  this  picture  of  Christian  missionary  work. 

He  does  not  altogether  take  the  view  of  the  Heathen  which 
you  would  get  in  an  Exeter  Hall  meeting.  Does  not  expati- 
ate on  their  ignorance,  their  blackness,  or  their  nakedness. 
Does  not  at  all  think  of  the  Florentine  Islington  and  Penton- 
ville,  as  inhabited  by  persons  in  every  respect  superior  to  the 
kings  of  the  East ;  nor  does  he  imagine  every  other  religion 
but  his  own  to  be  log-worship.  Probably  the  people  who 
really  worship  logs — whether  in  Persia  or  Pentonville — will  be 
left  to  worship  logs  to  their  hearts'  content,  thinks  Giotto. 
But  to  those  who  worship  God,  and  who  have  obeyed  the  laws 
of  heaven  written  in  their  hearts,  and  numbered  the  stars  of 
it  visible  to  them, — to  these,  a  nearer  star  may  rise  ;  and  a 
higher  God  be  revealed. 

You  are  to  note,  therefore,  that  Giotto's  Soldan  is  the  type 


54 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


of  all  noblest  religion  and  law,  in  countries  where  the  name 
of  Christ  has  not  been  preached.  There  was  no  doubt  what 
king  or  people  should  be  chosen  :  the  country  of  the  three 
Magi  had  already  been  indicated  by  the  miracle  of  Bethle- 
hem ;  and  the  religion  and  morality  of  Zoroaster  were  the 
purest,  and  in  spirit  the  oldest,  in  the  heathen  world.  There- 
fore, when  Dante,  in  the  nineteenth  and  twentieth  books  of 
the  Paradise,  gives  his  final  interpretation  of  the  law  of  human 
and  divine  justice  in  relation  to  the  gospel  of  Christ — the 
lower  and  enslaved  body  of  the  heathen  Being  represented  by 
St.  Philip's  convert,  ("Christians  like  these  the  Ethiop  shall 
condemn  ") — the  noblest  state  of  heathenism  is  at  once  chosen, 
as  by  Giotto  :  "  What  may  the  Persians  say  unto  your  kings  ?  ■ 
Compare  also  Milton, — 

"  At  the  Soldan's  chair, 
Defied  the  best  of  Paynim  chivalry." 

And  now,  the  time  is  come  for  you  to  look  at  Giotto's  St. 
Louis,  who  is  the  type  of  a  Christian  king. 

You  would,  I  suppose,  never  have  seen  it  at  all,  unless  I  had 
dragged  you  here  on  purpose.  It  was  enough  in  the  dark 
originally — is  trebly  darkened  by  the  modern  painted  glass — 
and  dismissed  to  its  oblivion  contentedly  by  Mr.  Murray's 
"Four  saints,  all  much  restored  and  repainted,"  and  Messrs. 
Crowe  and  Cavalcasella's  serene  "The  St.  Louis  is  quite 
new." 

Now,  I  am  the  last  person  to  call  any  restoration  whatever, 
judicious.  Of  all  destructive  manias,  that  of  restoration  is 
the  frightfullest  and  foolishest.  Nevertheless,  what  good,  in 
its  miserable  way,  it  can  bring,  the  poor  art  scholar  must  now 
apply  his  common  sense  to  take ;  there  is  no  use,  because  a 
great  work  has  been  restored,  in  now  passing  it  by  altogether, 
not  even  looking  for  what  instruction  we  still  may  find  in  its 
design,  which  will  be  more  intelligible,  if  the  restorer  has  had 
any  conscience  at  all,  to  the  ordinary  spectator,  than  it  would 
have  been  in  the  faded  work.  When,  indeed,  Mr.  Murray's 
Guide  tells  you  that  a  building  has  been  '  magnificently  re- 
stored,' you  may  pass  the  building  by  in  resigned  despair; 


BEFORE  TEE  SOL  DAK 


55 


for  that  means  that  every  bit  of  the  old  sculpture  has  been 
destroyed,  and  modern  vulgar  copies  put  up  in  its  place.  But 
a  restored  picture  or  fresco  will  often  be,  to  you,  more  useful 
than  a  pure  one  ;  and  in  all  probability — if  an  important  piece 
of  art — it  will  have  been  spared  in  many  places,  cautiously 
completed  in  others,  and  still  assert  itself  in  a  mysterious  way 
— as  Leonardo's  Cenacolo  does — through  every  phase  of  re- 
production.1 

But  I  can  assure  you,  in  the  first  place,  that  St.  Louis  is  by 

1  For  a  test  of  your  feeling  in  the  matter,  having  looked  well  at  these 
two  lower  frescos  in  this  chapel,  walk  round  into  the  next,  and  exam- 
ine the  lower  one  on  your  left  hand  as  you  enter  that.  You  will  find 
in  your  Murray  that  the  frescos  in  this  chapel  "  were  also,  till  lately, 
(1862)  covered  with  whitewash  ";  but  I  happen  to  have  a  long  critique 
of  this  particular  picture  written  in  the  year  1845,  and  I  see  no  change 
in  it  since  then.  Mr.  Murray's  critic  also  tells  you  to  observe  in  it  that 
uthe  daughter  of  Herodias  playing  on  a  violin  is  not  unlike  Perugino's 
treatment  of  similar  subjects.''  By  which  Mr.  Murray's  critic  means 
that  the  male  musician  playing  on  a  violin,  whom,  without  looking 
either  at  his  dress,  or  at  the  rest  of  the  fresco,  he  took  for  the  daughter 
of  Herodias,  has  a  broad  face.  Allowing  you  the  full  benefit  of  this 
criticism — there  is  still  a  point  or  two  more  to  be  observed.  This  is 
the  only  fresco  near  the  ground  in  which  Giotto's  work  is  untouched, 
at  least,  by  the  modern  restorer.  So  felicitously  safe  it  is,  that  you 
may  learn  from  it  at  once  and  for  ever,  what  good  fresco  painting  is — 
how  quiet — how  delicately  clear — how  little  coarsely  or  vulgarly  attrac- 
tive— how  capable  of  the  most  tender  light  and  shade,  and  of  the  most 
exquisite  and  enduring  colour. 

In  this  latter  respect,  this  fresco  stands  almost  alone  among  the  works 
oc  Giotto  ;  the  striped  curtain  behind  the  table  being  wrought  with '  a 
variety  and  fantasy  of  playing  colour  which  Paul  Veronese  could  not 
better  at  his  best. 

You  will  find,  without  difficulty,  in  spite  of  the  faint  tints,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Herodias  in  the  middle  of  the  picture  — slowly  moving,  not  danc- 
ing, to  the  violin  music— she  herself  playing  on  a  lyre.  In  the  farther 
corner  of  the  picture,  she  gives  St.  John's  head  to  her  mother  ;  the  face 
of  Herodias  is  almost  entirely  faded,  which  may  be  a  farther  guarantee 
to  you  of  the  safety  of  the  rest.  The  subject  of  the  Apocalypse,  high- 
est on  the  right,  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  mythic  pictures  in  Flor- 
ence ;  nor  do  I  know  any  other  so  completely  rendering  the  meaning  of 
the  scene  between  the  woman  in  the  wilderness,  and  the  Dragon  enemy. 
But  it  cannot  be  seen  from  the  floor  level:  and  I  have  no  power  of 
showing  its  beauty  in  words. 


56 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


no  means  altogether  new.  I  have  been  up  at  it,  and  found 
most  lovely  and  true  colour  left  in  many  parts :  the  crown, 
which  you  will  find,  after  our  mornings  at  the  Spanish  chapel, 
is  of  importance,  nearly  untouched  ;  the  lines  of  the  features- 
and  hair,  though  all  more  or  less  reproduced,  still  of  definite 
and  notable  character  ;  and  the  junction  throughout  of  added 
colour  so  careful,  that  the  harmony  of  the  whole,  if  not  deli- 
cate with  its  old  tenderness,  is  at  least,  in  its  coarser  way, 
solemn  and  unbroken.  Such  as  the  figure  remains,  it  still 
possesses  extreme  beauty — profoundest  interest.  And,  as  you 
can  see  it  from  below  with  your  glass,  it  leaves  little  to  be  de- 
sired, and  may  be  dwelt  upon  with  more  profit  than  nine  out 
of  ten  of  the  renowned  pictures  of  the  Tribune  or  the  Pitti. 
You  will  enter  into  the  spirit  of  it  better  if  I  first  translate  for 
you  a  little  piece  from  the  Fioretti  di  San  Francesco. 

"  How  St.  Louis,  King  of  France,  went  personally  in  the 
guise  of  a  pilgrim,  to  Perugia,  to  visit  the  holy  Brother  Giles. 
— St.  Louis,  King  of  France,  went  on  pilgrimage  to  visit  the 
sanctuaries  of  the  world  ;  and  hearing  the  most  great  fame  of 
the  holiness  of  Brother  Giles,  who  had  been  among  the  first 
companions  of  St.  Francis,  put  it  in  his  heart,  and  determined 
assuredly  that  he  would  visit  him  personally ;  wherefore  lie 
came  to  Perugia,  where  was  then  staying  the  said  brother. 
And  coming  to  the  gate  of  the  place  of  the  Brothers,  with  few 
companions,  and  being  unknown,  he  asked  with  great  earnest- 
ness for  Brother  Giles,  telling  nothing  to  the  porter  who  he 
was  that  asked.  The  porter,  therefore,  goes  to  Brother  Giles, 
and  says  that  there  is  a  pilgrim  asking  for  him  at  the  gate. 
And  by  God  it  was  inspired  in  him  and  revealed  that  it  was 
the  King  of  France  ;  whereupon  quickly  with  great  fervour 
he  left  his  cell  and  ran  to  the  gate,  and  without  any  question 
asked,  or  ever  having  seen  each  other  before,  kneeling  down 
together  with  greatest  devotion,  they  embraced  and  kissed 
each  other  with  as  much  familiarity  as  if  for  a  long  time  they 
had  held  great  friendship  ;  but  all  the  while  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other  spoke,  but  stayed,  so  embraced,  with  such  signs 
of  charitable  love,  in  silence.  And  so  having  remained  for  a 
great  while,  they  parted  from,  one  another,  and  St.  Louis 


BEFORE  THE  SOLD  AN. 


57 


went  on  his  way,  and  Brother  Giles  returned  to  his  cell.  And 
the  King  being  gone,  one  of  the  brethren  asked  of  his  com- 
panion who  he  was,  who  answered  that  he  was  the  King  of 
France.  Of  which  the  other  brothers  being  told,  were  in  the 
greatest  melancholy  because  Brother  Giles  had  never  said  a 
word  to  him ;  and  murmuring  at  it,  they  said,  6  Oh,  Brother 
Giles,  wherefore  hadst  thou  so  country  manners  that  to  so 
holy  a  king,  who  had  come  from  France  to  see  thee  and  hear 
from  thee  some  good  word,  thou  hast  spoken  nothing?' 

"  Answered  Brother  Giles  :  '  Dearest  brothers,  wonder  not 
ye  at  this,  that  neither  I  to  him,  nor  he  to  me,  could  speak  a 
word  ;  for  so  soon  as  we  had  embraced,  the  light  of  the  divine 
wisdom  revealed  and  manifested,  to  me,  his  heart,  and  to  him, 
mine  ;  and  so  by  divine  operation  we  looked  each  in  the 
other's  heart  on  what  we  would  have  said  to  one  another,  and 
knew  it  better  far  than  if  we  had  spoken  with  the  mouth,  and 
with  more  consolation,  because  of  the  defect  of  the  human 
tongue,  which  cannot  clearly  express  the  secrets  of  God,  and 
would  have  been  for  discomfort  rather  than  comfort.  And 
know,  therefore,  that  the  King  parted  from  me  marvellously 
content,  and  comforted  in  his  mind.'  " 

Of  all  which  story,  not  a  word,  of  course,  is  credible  by  any 
rational  person. 

Certainly  not :  the  spirit,  nevertheless,  which  created  the 
story,  is  an  entirely  indisputable  fact  in  the  history  of  Italy 
and  of  mankind.  Whether  St.  Louis  and  Brother  Giles  ever 
knelt  together  in  the  street  of  Perugia  matters  not  a  whit. 
That  a  king  and  a  poor  monk,  could  be  conceived  to  have 
thoughts  of  each  other  which  no  words  could  speak  ;  and  that 
indeed  the  King's  tenderness  and  humility  made  such  a  tale 
credible  to  the  people, — this  is  what  you  have  to  meditate  on 
here. 

Nor  is  there  any  better  spot  in  the  world, — whencesoever 
your  pilgrim  feet  may  have  journeyed  to  it,  wherein  to  make 
up  so  much  mind  as  you  have  in  you  for  the  making,  concern- 
ing the  nature  of  Kinghood  and  Princedom  generally  ;  and  of 
the  forgeries  and  mockeries  of  both  which  are  too  often  mani- 
fested in  their  room.    For  it  happens  that  this  Christian  and 


58 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


this  Persian  King  are  better  painted  here  by  Giotto  than  else- 
where  by  any  one,  so  as  to  give  you  the  best  attainable  con- 
ception of  the  Christian  and  Heathen  powers  which  have 
both  received,  in  the  book  which  Christians  profess  to  rever- 
ence, the  same  epithet  as  the  King  of  the  Jews  Himself  ; 
anointed,  or  Christos : — and  as  the  most  perfect  Christian 
Kinghood  was  exhibited  in  the  life,  partly  real,  partly  tradi- 
tional, of  St.  Louis,  so  the  most  perfect  Heathen  Kinghood  was 
exemplified  in  the  life,  partly  real,  partly  traditional,  of  Cyrus 
of  Persia,  and  in  the  laws  for  human  government  and  educa- 
tion which  had  chief  force  in  his  dynasty.  And  before  the 
images  of  these  two  Kings  I  think  therefore  it  will  be  well 
that  you  should  read  the  charge  to  Cyrus,  written  by  Isaiah. 
The  second  clause  of  it,  if  not  all,  will  here  become  memora- 
ble to  you — literally  illustrating,  as  it  does,  the  very  manner 
of  the  defeat  of  the  Zoroastrian  Magi,  on  which  Giotto  founds 
his  Triumph  of  Faith.  I  write  the  leading  sentences  continu- 
ously ;  what  I  omit  is  only  their  amplification,  which  you  can 
easily  refer  to  at  home.    (Isaiah  xliv.  24,  to  xlv.  13.) 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  thy  Eedeemer,  and  he  that  formed 
thee  from  the  womb.  I  the  Lord  that  maketh  all ;  that 
stretcheth  forth  the  heavens,  alone  ;  that  spreadeth  abroad 
the  earth,  alone  ;  that  turneth  wise  men  backward,  and  maketh 
their  knowledge,  foolish  ;  that  confirmeth  the  word  of  his  Ser- 
vant, and  fulfilleth  the  counsel  of  his  messengers  :  that  saith  of 
Cyrus,  He  is  my  Shepherd,  and  shall  perform  all  my  pleasure, 
even  saying  to  Jerusalem,  '  thou  shalt  be  built/ and  to  the 
temple,  'thy  foundations  shall  be  laid.' 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord  to  his  Christ ; — to  Cyrus,  whose  right 
hand  I  have  holden,  to  subdue  nations  before  him,  and  I  will 
loose  the  loins  of  Kings. 

"I  will  go  before  thee,  and  make  the  crooked  places 
straight ;  I  will  break  in  pieces  the  gates  of  brass,  and  cut  in 
sunder  the  bars  of  iron  ;  and  I  will  give  thee  the  treasures  of 
darkness,  and  hidden  riches  of  secret  places,  that  thou  mayest 
know  that  I  the  Lord,  which  call  thee  by  thy  name,  am  the 
God  of  Israel. 

"For  Jacob  my  servant's  sake,  and  Israel  mine  elect,  I  have 


BEFORE  THE  SOLDAN. 


59 


even  called  thee  by  thy  name  ;  I  have  surnamed  \hee,  though 
thou  hast  not  known  me, 

"  I  am  the  Lord,  and  there  is  none  else  ;  there  is  no  God 
beside  me.  I  girded  thee,  though  thou  hast  not  known  me. 
That  they  may  know,  from  the  rising  of  the  sun,  and  from  the 
west,  that  there  is  none  beside  me  ;  I  am  the  Lord  and  there 
is  none  else.  / form  the  light,  and  create  darkness ;  I  make 
peace,  and  create  evil.    I  the  Lord  do  all  these  things. 

"  I  have  raised  him  up  in  Eighteousness,  and  will  direct  all 
his  wrays  ;  he  shall  build  my  city,  and  let  go  my  captives,  not 
for  price  nor  reward,  saith  the  Lord  of  Nations." 

To  this  last  verse,  add  the  ordinance  of  Cyrus  in  fulfilling 
it,  that  you  may  understand  what  is  meant  by  a  King's  being 
"  raised  up  in  Eighteousness,"  and  notice,  with  respect  to  the 
picture  under  which  you  stand,  the  Persian  King's  thought  of 
the  Jewish  temple. 

"In  the  first  year  of  the  reign  of  Cyrus,1  King  C}tus  com- 
manded that  the  house  of  the  Lord  at  Jerusalem  should  be 
built  again,  where  they  do  service  with  perpetual  fire  ;  (the 
italicized  sentence  is  Darius's,  quoting  Cyrus's  decree — the 
decree  itself  worded  thus),  Thus  saith  Cyrus,  King  of  Persia  : 2 
The  Lord  God  of  heaven  hath  given  me  all  the  kingdoms  of 
the  earth,  and  he  hath  charged  me  to  build  him  an  house  at 
Jerusalem. 

"  Who  is  there  among  you  of  all  his  people  ? — his  God  be 
with  him,  and  let  him  go  up  to  Jerusalem  which  is  in  Judah, 
and  let  the  men  of  his  place  help  him  with  silver  and  with 
gold,  and  with  goods  and  with  beasts." 

Between  which  "  bringing  the  prisoners  out  of  captivity " 
and  modern  liberty,  free  trade,  and  anti-slavery  eloquence, 
there  is  no  small  interval. 

To  these  two  ideals  of  Kinghood,  then,  the  boy  has  reached, 
since  the  day  he  was  drawing  the  lamb  on  the  stone,  as  Cim- 
abue  passed  by.  You  will  not  find  two  other  such,  that  I 
know  of,  in  the  west  of  Europe  ;  and  yet  there  has  been  many 

1  1st  Esdras  vi.  24. 

s  Ezra  i.  3,  and  2nd  Esdras  ii.  3, 


60 


MOKN1NG&  IN  FLORENCE. 


a  try  at  the  painting  of  crowned  heads, — and  King  George  III 
and  Queen  Charlotte,  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  are  very  fine, 
no  doubt.  Also  your  black-muzzled  kings  of  Velasquez,  and 
Vandyke's  long-haired  and  white-handed  ones ;  and  Rubens' 
riders — in  those  handsome  boots.  Pass  such  shadows  of  them 
as  you  can  summon,  rapidly  before  your  memory — then  look 
at  this  St.  Louis. 

His  face — gentle,  resolute,  glacial-pure,  thin-cheeked  ;  so 
sharp  at  the  chin  that  the  entire  head  is  almost  of  the  form  of 
a  knight's  shield — the  hair  short  on  the  forehead,  falling  on 
each  side  in  the  old  Greek-Etruscan  curves  of  simplest  line, 
to  the  neck  ;  I  don't  know  if  you  can  see  without  being 
nearer,  the  difference  in  the  arrangement  of  it  on  the  two 
sides — the  mass  of  it  on  the  right  shoulder  bending  inwards, 
while  that  on  the  left  falls  straight.  It  is  one  of  the  pretty 
changes  which  a  modern  workman  would  never  dream  of — 
and  which  assures  me  the  restorer  has  followed  the  old  lines 
rightly. 

He  wears  a  crown  formed  by  an  hexagonal  pyramid,  beaded 
with  pearls  on  the  edges  :  and  walled  round,  above  the  brow, 
with  a  vertical  fortress-parapet,  as  it  were,  rising  into  sharp 
pointed  spines  at  the  angles  :  it  is  chasing  of  gold  with  pearl 
— beautiful  in  the  remaining  work  of  it ;  the  Soldan  wears  a 
crown  of  the  same  general  form  ;  the  hexagonal  outline  signi- 
fying all  order,  strength,  and  royal  economy.  We  shall  see 
farther  symbolism  of  this  kind,  soon,  by  Simon  Memmi,  in 
the  Spanish  chapel. 

I  cannot  tell  you  anything  definite  of  the  two  other  frescos 
— for  I  can  only  examine  one  or  two  pictures  in  a  day  ;  and 
never  begin  with  one  till  I  have  done  with  another  ;  and  I 
had  to  leave  Florence  without  looking  at  these — even  so  far  as 
to  be  quite  sure  of  their  subjects.  The  central  one  on  the 
left  is  either  the  twelfth  subject  of  Assisi — St.  Francis  in  Ec- 
stacy  ; 1  or  the  eighteenth,  the  Apparition  of  St.  Francis  at 

1  u  Represented "  (next  to  St.  Francis  before  the  Soldan,  at  Assisi) 
"  as  seen  one  night  by  the  brethren,  praying",  elevated  from  the  ground, 
his  hands  extended  like  the  cross,  and  surrounded  by  a  shining  cloud.* 

—Lord  Lindsay. 


THE  VAULTED  BOOK. 


61 


Aries  ; 1  while  the  lowest  on  the  right  may  admit  choice  be- 
tween two  subjects  in  each  half  of  it :  my  own  reading  of 
them  would  be — that  they  are  the  twenty-first  and  twenty- 
fifth  subjects  of  Assisi,  the  Dying  Friar  2  and  Vision  of  Pope 
Gregory  IX. ; 3  but  Crowe  and  Cavalcasella  may  be  right  in 
their  different  interpretation  ; 4  in  any  case,  the  meaning  of 
the  entire  system  of  work  remains  unchanged,  as  I  have 
given  it  above. 


THE  FOURTH  MORNING. 

THE  VAULTED  BOOK. 

As  early  as  may  be  this  morning,  let  us  look  for  a  minute 
or  two  into  the  cathedral  : — I  was  going  to  say,  entering  by 
one  of  the  side  doors  of  the  aisles  ; — but  we  can't  do  anything 
else,  which  perhaps  might  not  strike  you  unless  you  were 
thinking  specially  of  it.  There  are  no  transept  doors  ;  and 
one  never  wanders  round  to  the  desolate  front. 

1  "St.  Anthony  of  Padua  was  preaching  at  a  general  chapter  of  the 
order,  held  at  Aries,  in  1224,  when  St.  Francis  appeared  in  the  midst, 
his  arms  extended,  and  in  an  attitude  of  benediction." — Lord  Lindsay. 

2  "A  brother  of  the  order,  lying  on  his  deathbed,  saw  the  spirit  of  St. 
Francis  rising  to  heaven,  and  springing  forward,  cried,  1  Tarry,  Father, 
I  come  with  thee  ! '  and  fell  back  dead.'' — Lord  Lindsay. 

3  "He  hesitated,  before  canonizing  St.  Francis  ;  doubting  the  celes- 
tial iniliction  of  the  stigmata.  St.  Francis  appeared  to  him  in  a  vision, 
and  with  a  severe  countenance  reproving  his  unbelief,  opened  his  robe, 
and,  exposing  the  wound  in  his  side,  filled  a  vial  with  the  blood  that 
flowed  from  it,  and  gave  it  to  the  Pope,  who  awoke  and  found  it  in  his 
hand. ' ' — Lord  Lindsay. 

4  "As  St.  Francis  was  carried  on  his  bed  of  sickness  to  St.  Maria 
degli  Angeli,  he  stopped  at  an  hospital  on  the  roadside,  and  ordering 
his  attendants  to  turn  his  head  in  the  direction  of  Assisi,  he  rose  in  his 
litter  and  said,  1  Blessed  be  thou  amongst  cities  !  may  the  blessing  of 
God  cling  to  thee,  oh  holy  place,  for  by  thee  shall  many  souls  be  saved  ; 
and,  having  said  this,  he  lay  down  and  was  carried  on  to  St.  Maria 
degli  Angeli.  On  the  evening  of  the  4th  of  October  his  death  was  re- 
vealed at  the  very  hour  to  the  bishop  of  Assisi  on  Mount  Sarzana.''— 
Crowe  and  Cavalcasella. 


62 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


From  either  of  the  side  doors,  a  few  paces  will  bring  you 
to  the  middle  of  the  nave,  and  to  the  point  opposite  the 
middle  of  the  third  arch  from  the  west  end  ;  where  you  will 
find  yourself — if  well  in  the  mid-nave — standing  on  a  circular 
slab  of  green  porphyry,  which  marks  the  former  place  of  the 
grave  of  the  bishop  Zenobius.  The  larger  inscription,  on  the 
wide  circle  of  the  floor  outside  of  you,  records  the  translation 
of  his  body  ;  the  smaller  one  round  the  stone  at  your  feet — 
"  quiescimus,  domum  hanc  quum  adimus  ultimam" — is  a 
painful  truth,  I  suppose,  to  travellers  like  us,  who  never  rest 
anywhere  now,  if  we  can  help  it. 

Besting  here,  at  any  rate,  for  a  few  minutes,  look  up  to  the 
whitewashed  vaulting  of  the  compartment  of  the  roof  next 
the  west  end. 

You  will  see  nothing  whatever  in  it  worth  looking  at. 
Nevertheless,  look  a  little  longer. 

But  the  longer  you  look,  the  less  you  will  understand  why 
I  tell  you  to  look.  It  is  nothing  but  a  whitewashed  ceiling  : 
vaulted  indeed, — but  so  is  many  a  tailor's  garret  window,  for 
that  matter.  Indeed,  nowr  that  you  have  looked  steadily  for  a 
minute  or  so,  and  are  used  to  the  form  of  the  arch,  it  seems 
to  become  so  small  that  you  can  almost  fancy  it  the  ceiling  of 
a  good-sized  lumber-room  in  an  attic. 

Having  attained  to  this  modest  conception  of  it,  carry  your 
eyes  back  to  the  similar  vault  of  the  second  compartment, 
nearer  you.  Very  little  further  contemplation  will  reduce 
that  also  to  the  similitude  of  a  moderately-sized  attic.  And 
then,  resolving  to  bear,  if  possible — for  it  is  worth  while, — 
the  cramp  in  your  neck  for  another  quarter  of  a  minute,  look 
right  up  to  the  third  vault,  over  your  head  ;  which,  if  not,  in 
the  said  quarter  of  a  minute,  reducible  in  imagination  to  a 
tailor's  garret,  will  at  least  sink,  like  the  two  others,  into  the 
semblance  of  a  common  arched  ceiling,  of  no  serious  magni- 
tude or  majesty. 

Then,  glance  quickly  down  from  it  to  the  floor,  and  round 
at  the  space,  (included  between  the  four  pillars),  which  that 
vault  covers. 


THE  VAULTED  BOOK 


63 


It  is  sixty  feet  square,' — four  hundred  square  yards  of 
pavement, — and  I  believe  you  will  have  to  look  up  again  more 
than  once  or  twice,  before  you  can  convince  yourself  that  the 
mean-looking  roof  is  swept  indeed  over  all  that  twelfth 
part  of  an  acre.  And  still  less,  if  I  mistake  not,  will  you, 
without  slow  proof,  believe,  when  you  turn  yourself  round 
towards  the  east  end,  that  the  narrow  niche  (it  really  looks 
scarcely  more  than  a  niche)  which  occupies,  beyond  the 
dome,  the  position  of  our  northern  choirs,  is  indeed  the 
unnarrowed  elongation  of  the  nave,  whose  breadth  extends 
round  you  like  a  frozen  lake.  From  which  experiments  and 
comparisons,  your  conclusion,  I  think,  will  be,  and  I  am  sure 
it  ought  to  be,  that  the  most  studious  ingenuity  could  not 
produce  a  design  for  the  interior  of  a  building  which  should 
more  completely  hide  its  extent,  and  throw  away  every  com- 
mon advantage  of  its  magnitude,  than  this  of  the  Duomo  of 
Florence. 

Having  arrived  at  this,  I  assure  you,  quite  securely  tenable 
cod  elusion,  we  wdll  quit  the  cathedral  by  the  wrestern  door, 
for  once,  and  as  quickly  as  wTe  can  walk,  return  to  the  Green 
cloister  of  Sta.  Maria  Novella ;  and  place  ourselves  on  the 
south  side  of  it,  so  as  to  see  as  much  as  we  can  of  the 
entrance,  on  the  opposite  side,  to  the  so-called  '  Spanish 
Chapel.' 

There  is,  indeed,  within  the  opposite  cloister,  an  arch  of 
entrance,  plain  enough.  But  no  chapel,  whatever,  externally 
manifesting  itself  as  worth  entering.  No  walls,  or  gable,  or 
dome,  raised  above  the  rest  of  the  outbuildings — only  two 
windows  with  traceries  opening  into  the  cloister ;  and  one 
story  of  inconspicuous  building  above.  You  can't  conceive 
there  should  be  any  effect  of  magnitude  produced  in  the  in- 
terior, however  it  has  been  vaulted  or  decorated.  It  may  be 
pretty,  but  it  cannot  possibly  look  large. 

Entering  it,  nevertheless,  you  will  be  surprised  at  the  effect 
of  height,  and  disposed  to  fancy  that  the  circular  window 

!  Approximately.  Thinking  I  could  find  the  dimensions  of  the 
duomo  anywhere,  I  only  paced  it  myself, — and  cannot,  at  this  moment, 
lay  my  hand  on  English  measurements  of  it. 


64 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


cannot  surely  be  the  same  you  saw  outside,  looking  so  low. 
I  had  to  go  out  again,  myself,  to  make  sure  that  it  was. 

And  gradually,  as  you  let  the  eye  follow  the  sweep  of  the 
vaulting  arches,  from  the  small  central  keystone-boss,  with 
the  Lamp  carved  on  it,  to  the  broad  capitals  of  the  hexagonal 
pillars  at  the  angles, — there  will  form  itself  in  your  mind,  I 
think,  some  impression  not  only  of  vastness  in  the  building, 
but  of  great  daring  in  the  builder ;  and  at  last,  after  closely 
following  out  the  lines  of  a  fresco  or  two,  and  looking  up  and 
up  again  to  the  coloured  vaults,  it  will  become  to  you  literally 
one  of  the  grandest  places  you  ever  entered,  roofed  without  a 
central  pillar.  You  will  begin  to  wonder  that  human  daring 
ever  achieved  anything  so  magnificent. 

But  just  go  out  again  into  the  cloister,  and  recover  knowP 
edge  of  the  facts.  It  is  nothing  like  so  large  as  the  blank 
arch  which  at  home  we  filled  with  brickbats  or  leased  for  a 
gin-shop  under  the  last  railway  we  made  to  carry  coals  to 
Newcastle.  And  if  you  pace  the  floor  it  covers,  you  will  find 
it  is  three  feet  less  one  way,  and  thirty  feet  less  the  other, 
than  that  single  square  of  the  Cathedral  which  was  roofed 
like  a  tailor's  loft, — accurately,  for  I  did  measure  here,  myself, 
the  floor  of  the  Spanish  chapel  is  fifty- seven  feet  by  thirty- 
two. 

I  hope,  after  this  experience,  that  you  will  need  no  farther 
conviction  of  the  first  law  of  noble  building,  that  grandeur 
depends  on  proportion  and  design — not,  except  in  a  quite 
secondary  degree,  on  magnitude.  Mere  size  has,  indeed, 
under  all  disadvantage,  some  definite  value  ;  and  so  has  mere 
splendour.  Disappointed  as  you  may  be,  or  at  least  ought  to 
be,  at  first,  by  St.  Peter's,  in  the  end  you  will  feel  its  size, — ; 
and  its  brightness.  These  are  all  you  can  feel  in  it — it  is 
nothing  more  than  the  pump-room  at  Leamington  built  big- 
ger ; — but  the  bigness  tells  at  last :  and  Corinthian  pillars 
whose  capitals  alone  are  ten  feet  highland  their  acanthus 
leaves,  three  feet  six  long,  give  you  a  serious  conviction  of  the 
infallibility  of  the  Pope,  and  the  fallibility  of  the  wretched 
Corinthians,  who  invented  the  style  indeed,  but  built  with 
capitals  no  bigger  than  hand-baskets. 


THE  VAULTED  BOOK 


65 


Vastness  has  thus  its  value.  But  the  glory  of  architecture 
is  to  be — whatever  you  wish  it  to  be, — lovely,  or  grand,  or 
comfortable, — on  such  terms  as  it  can  easily  obtain.  Grand, 
by  proportion — lovely,  by  imagination — comfortable,  by  in- 
genuity— secure,  by  honesty  :  with  such  materials  and  in  such 
space  as  you  have  got  to  give  it. 

Grand — by  proportion,  I  said  ;  but  ought  to  have  said  by 
disproportion.  Beauty  is  given  by  the  relation  of  parts — size, 
by  their  comparison.  The  first  secret  in  getting  the  impres- 
sion of  size  in  this  chapel  is  the  disproportion  between  pillar 
and  arch.  You  take  the  pillar  for  granted, — it  is  thick,  strong, 
and  fairly  high  above  your  head.  You  look  to  the  vault 
springing  from  it — and  it  soars  away,  nobody  knows  where. 

Another  great,  but  more  subtle  secret  is  in  #the  inequality 
and  immeasurability  of  the  curved  lines ;  and  the  hiding  of 
the  form  by  the  colour. 

To  begin,  the  room,  I  said,  is  fifty-seven  feet  wide,  and 
only  thirty-two  deep.  It  is  thus  nearly  one-third  larger  in 
the  direction  across  the  line  of  entrance,  which  gives  to  every 
arch,  pointed  and  round,  throughout  the  roof,  a  different 
spring  from  its  neighbours. 

The  vaulting  ribs  have  the  simplest  of  all  profiles — that  of 
a  chamfered  beam.  I  call  it  simpler  than  even  that  of  a 
square  beam  ;  for  in  barking  a  log  you  cheaply  get  your  cham- 
fer, and  nobody  cares  whether  the  level  is  alike  on  each  side : 
but  you  must  take  a  larger  tree,  and  use  much  more  work  to 
get  a  square.    And  it  is  the  same  with  stone. 

And  this  profile  is — fix  the  conditions  of  it,  therefore,  in 
your  mind, — venerable  in  the  history  of  mankind  as  the  origin 
of  all  Gothic  tracery-mouldings ;  venerable  in  the  history  of 
the  Christian  Church  as  that  of  the  roof  ribs,  both  of  the  > 
lower  church  of  Assisi,  bearing  the  scroll  of  the  precepts  of. 
St.  Francis,  and  here  at  Florence,  bearing  the  scroll  of  the 
faith  of  St.  Dominic.  If  you  cut  it  out  in  paper,  and  cut  the 
corners  off  farther  and  farther,  at  every  cut,  you  will  produce 
a  sharper  profile  of  rib,  connected  in  architectural  use  with 
differently  treated  styles.  But  the  entirely  venerable  form  is 
the  massive  one  in  which  the  angle  of  the  beam  is  merely,  as 


86 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


it  were,  secured  and  completed  in  stability  by  removing  its 
too  sharp  edge. 

Well,  the  vaulting  ribs,  as  in  Giotto's  vault,  then,  have  here, 
under  their  painting,  this  rude  profile :  but  do  not  suppose 
the  vaults  are  simply  the  shells  cast  over  them.  Look  how 
the  ornamental  borders  fall  on  the  capitals !  The  plaster  re- 
ceives all  sorts  of  indescribably  accommodating  shapes — the 
painter  contracting  and  stopping  his  design  upon  it  as  it  hap- 
pens to  be  convenient.  You  can't  measure  anything ;  you 
can't  exhaust ;  you  can't  grasp, — except  one  simple  ruling 
idea,  which  a  child  can  grasp,  if  it  is  interested  and  intelligent : 
namely,  that  the  room  has  four  sides  with  four  tales  told  upon 
them ;  and  the  roof  four  quarters,  with  another  four  tales 
told  on  those.  And  each  history  in  the  sides  has  its  corre- 
spondent history  in  the  roof.  Generally,  in  good  Italian  deco- 
ration, the  roof  represents  constant,  or  essential  facts ;  the 
wTalls,  consecutive  histories  arising  out  of  them,  or  leading  up 
to  them.  Thus  here,  the  roof  represents  in  front  of  you,  in 
its  main  quarter,  the  Resurrection — the  cardinal  fact  of  Chris- 
tianity; opposite  (above,  behind  you),  the  Ascension  ;  on  your 
left  hand,  the  descent  of  the  Holy  Spirit ;  on  your  right, 
Christ's  perpetual  presence  with  His  Church,  symbolized  by 
His  appearance  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee  to  the  disciples  in  the 
storm. 

The  correspondent  walls  represent :  under  the  first  quarter, 
(the  Resurrection),  the  story  of  the  Crucifixion  ;  under  the 
second  quarter,  (the  Ascension),  the  preaching  after  that  de- 
parture, that  Christ  will  return — symbolized  here  in  the  Do- 
minican church  by  the  consecration  of  St.  Dominic ;  under 
the  third  quarter,  (the  descent  of  the  Holy  Spirit),  the  dis- 
ciplining power  of  human  virtue  and  wisdom;  under  the  fourth 
quarter,  (St.  Peter's  Ship),  the  authority  and  government  of 
the  State  and  Church. 

The  order  of  these  subjects,  chosen  by  the  Dominican  monks 
themselves,  was  sufficiently  comprehensive  to  leave  boundless 
room  for  the  invention  of  the  painter.  The  execution  of  it 
was  first  intrusted  to  Taddeo  Gaddi,  the  best  architectural 
master  of  Giotto's  school,  who  painted  the  four  quarters  of 


THE  VAULTED  BOOK 


G7 


the  roof  entirely,  but  with  no  great  brilliancy  of  invention, 
and  was  beginning  to  go  down  one  of  the  sides,  when,  luckily, 
a  man  of  stronger  brain,  his  friend,  came  from  Siena.  Taddeo 
thankfully  yielded  the  room  to  him  ;  he  joined  his  own  work 
to  that  of  his  less  able  friend  in  an  exquisitely  pretty  and 
complimentary  way ;  throwing  his  own  greater  strength  into 
it,  not  competitively,  but  gradually  and  helpfully.  When, 
however,  he  had  once  got  himself  well  joined,  and  softly,  to 
the  more  simple  work,  he  put  his  own  force  on  with  a  will ; 
and  produced  the  most  noble  piece  of  pictorial  philosophy  1 
and  divinity  existing  in  Italy. 

This  pretty,  and,  according  to  all  evidence  by  me  attainable, 
entirely  true,  tradition  has  been  all  but  lost,  among  the  ruins 
of  fair  old  Florence,  by  the  industry  of  modern  mason-critics 
— who,  without  exception,  labouring  under  the  primal  (and 
necessarily  unconscious)  disadvantage  of  not  knowing  good 
work  from  bad,  and  never,  therefore,  knowing  a  man  by  his 
hand  or  his  thoughts,  wrould  be  in  any  case  sorrowfully  at  the 
mercy  of  mistakes  in  a  document ;  but  are  tenfold  more  de- 
ceived by  their  own  vanity,  and  delight  in  overthrowing  a  re- 
ceived idea,  if  they  can. 

Farther :  as  every  fresco  of  this  early  date  has  been  re- 
touched again  and  again,  and  often  painted  half  over, — and 
as,  if  there  has  been  the  least  care  or  respect  for  the  old  work 
in  the  restorer,  he  will  now  and  then  follow  the  old  lines  and 
match  the  old  colours  carefully  in  some  places,  while  he  puts 
in  clearly  recognizable  work  of  his  own  in  others, — two  critics, 
of  whom  one  knows  the  first  man's  work  well,  and  the  other 
the  last's,  will  contradict  each  other  to  almost  any  extent  on 
the  securest  grounds.  And  there  is  then  no  safe  refuge  for 
an  uninitiated  person  but  in  the  old  tradition,  which,  if  not 
literally  true,  is  founded  assuredly  on  some  root  of  fact  which 
you  are  likely  to  get  at,  if  ever,  through  it  only.  So  that  my 
general  directions  to  all  young  people  going  to  Florence  or 

1  There  is  no  philosophy  taught  either  by  the  school  of  Athens  or 
Michael  Angelo's  *  Last  Judgment/  and  the  1  Disputa'  is  merely  a  grace- 
ful assemblage  of  authorities3  the  effects  of  such  authority  not  being 
shown. 


68 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


Rome  would  be  very  short :  "  Know  your  first  volume  of 
Vasari,  and  your  two  first  books  of  Livy  ;  look  about  you,  and 
don't  talk,  nor  listen  to  talking." 

On  those  terms,  you  may  know,  entering  this  chapel,  that 
in  Michael  Angelo's  time,  all  Florence  attributed  these  fres- 
cos to  Taddeo  Gaddi  and  Simon  Memmi. 

I  have  studied  neither  of  these  artists  myself  with  any 
speciality  of  care,  and  cannot  tell  you  positively,  anything 
about  them  or  their  works.  But  I  know  good  work  from  bad, 
as  a  cobbler  knows  leather,  and  I  can  tell  you  positively  the 
quality  of  these  frescos,  and  their  relation  to  contemporary 
panel  pictures ;  whether  authentically  ascribed  to  Gaddi,  Mem- 
mi,  or  any  one  else,  it  is  for  the  Florentine  Academy  to  decide. 

The  roof,  and  the  north  side,  down  to  the  feet  of  the  hori- 
zontal line  of  sitting  figures,  wTere  originally  third-rate  work 
of  the  school  of  Giotto  ;  the  rest  of  the  chapel  was  originally, 
and  most  of  it  is  still,  magnificent  work  of  the  school  of  Siena. 
The  roof  and  north  side  have  been  heavily  repainted  in  many 
jxlaces  ;  the  rest  is  faded  and  injured,  but  not  destroyed  in  its 
most  essential  qualities.  And  now,  farther,  you  must  bear 
with  just  a  little  bit  of  tormenting  history  of  painters. 

There  were  two  Gaddis,  father  and  son, — Taddeo  and  Angelo. 
And  there  were  two  Memmis,  brothers, — Simon  and  Philip. 

I  daresay  you  will  find,  in  the  modern  books,  that  Simon's 
real  name  was  Peter,  and  Philip's  real  name  was  Bartholo- 
mew ;  and  Angelo's  real  name  was  Taddeo,  and  Taddeo's  real 
name  was  Angelo  ;  and  Memmi's  real  name  was  Gaddi,  and 
Gaddis  real  name  was  Memmi.  You  may  find  out  all  that  at 
your  leisure,  afterwards,  if  you  like.  What  it  is  important  for 
you  to  know  here,  in  the  Spanish  Chapel,  is  only  this  much 
that  follows  : — -There  were  certainly  two  persons  once  called 
Gaddi,  both  rather  stupid  in  religious  matters  and  high  art ; 
but  one  of  them,  I  don't  know  or  care  which,  a  true  decora- 
tive painter  of  the  most  exquisite  skill,  a.  perfect  architect,  an 
amiable  person,  and  a  great  lover  of  pretty  domestic  life. 
Vasari  says  this  was  the  father,  Taddeo.  He  built  the  Ponte 
Vecchio  ;  and  the  old  stones  of  it — which  if  you  ever  look  at 
anything  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio  but  the  shops,  you  may  still 


THE  VAULTED  BOOK. 


69 


see  (above  those  wooden  pent-houses)  with  the  Florentine 
shield — were  so  laid  by  him  that  they  are  unshaken  to  this  day. 

He  painted  an  exquisite  series  of  frescos  at  Assisi  from  the 
Life  of  Christ  ;  in  which, — just  to  show  you  what  the  man's 
nature  is, — when  the  Madonna  has  given  Christ  into  Simeon's 
arms,  she  can't  help  holding  out  her  own  arms  to  him,  and 
saying,  (visibly,)  "Won't  you  come  back  to  mamma?"  The 
child  laughs  his  answer — I  love  you,  mamma  ;  but  I'm  quite 
happy  just  now." 

Well ;  he,  or  he  and  his  son  together,  painted  these  four 
quarters  of  the  roof  of  the  Spanish  Chapel,  They  were  very 
probably  much  retouched  afterwards  by  Antonio  Veneziano, 
or  whomsoever  Messrs.  Crowe  and  Cavalcasella  please  ;  but 
that  architecture  in  the  descent  of  the  Holy  Ghost  is  by  the 
man  who  painted  the  north  transept  of  Assisi,  and  there  need 
be  no  more  talk  about  the  matter, — for  you  never  catch  a  re- 
storer doing  his  old  architecture  right  again.  And  farther, 
the  ornamentation  of  the  vaulting  ribs  is  by  the  man  who 
painted  the  Entombment,  No.  31  in  the  Galerie  des  Grands 
Tableaux,  in  the  catalogue  of  the  Academy  for  1874.  Whether 
that  picture  is  Taddeo  Gaddi's  or  not,  as  stated  in  the  cata- 
logue, I  do  not  know  ;  but  I  know  the  vaulting  ribs  of  the 
Spanish  Chapel  are  painted  by  the  same  hand. 

Again :  of  the  two  brothers  Mem  mi,  one  or  other,  I  don't 
know  or  care  which,  had  an  ugly  way  of  turning  the  eyes  of 
his  figures  up  and  their  mouths  down  ;  of  which  you  may  see 
an  entirely  disgusting  example  in  the  four  saints  attributed  to 
Filippo  Memmi  on  the  cross  wall  of  the  north  (called  always 
in  Murray's  guide  the  south,  because  he  didn't  notice  the  way 
the  church  was  built)  transept  of  Assisi.  You  may,  however, 
also  see  the  way  the  mouth  goes  down  in  the  much  repainted, 
but  still  characteristic  No.  9  in  the  Ufnzii.1 

1  This  picture  bears  the  inscription  (I  quote  from  the  French  catalogue, 
not  having  verified  it  myself),  "  Simon  Martini,  et  Lippus  Memmi  d6 
Benis  me  pinxerunt."  I  have  no  doubt  whatever,  myself,  that  the  two 
brothers  worked  together  on  these  frescoes  of  the  Spanish  Chapel :  but 
that  most  of  the  Limbo  is  Philip's,  and  the  Paradise,  scarcely  with  his 
Interference,  Simon's. 


TO 


MORNINGS  JN  FLORENCE. 


Now  I  catch  the  wring  and  verjuice  of  this  brother  again 
and  again,  among  the  minor  heads  of  the  lower  frescoes  in 
this  Spanish  Chapel.  The  head  of  the  Queen  beneath  Noah, 
in  the  Limbo, — (see  below)  is  unmistakable. 

Farther  :  one  of  the  two  brothers,  I  don't  care  which,  had  a 
way  of  painting  leaves  ;  of  which  you  may  see  a  notable  ex- 
ample in  the  rod  in  the  hand  of  Gabriel  in  that  same  picture 
of  the  Annunciation  in  the  XJffizii.  No  Florentine  painter,  or 
any  other,  ever  painted  leaves  as  well  as  that,  till  you  get  down 
to  Sandro  Botticelli,  who  did  them  much  better.  But  the  man 
who  painted  that  rod  in  the  hand  of  Gabriel,  painted  the  rod 
in  the  right  hand  of  Logic  in  the  Spanish  Chapel, — and  no- 
body else  in  Florence,  or  the  world,  could. 

Farther  (and  this  is  the  last  of  the  antiquarian  business); 
you  see  that  the  frescoes  on  the  roof  are,  on  the  whole,  dark 
with  much  blue  and  red  in  them,  the  white  spaces  coming- 
out  strongly.  This  is  the  characteristic  colouring  of  the  par- 
tially defunct  school  of  Giotto,  becoming  merely  decorative, 
and  passing  into  a  colourist  school  which  connected  itself 
afterwards  with  the  Venetians.  There  is  an  exquisite  example 
of  all  its  specialities  in  the  little  Annunciation  in  the  TJffizii, 
No.  14,  attributed  to  Angelo  Gaddi,  in  which  you  see  the 
Madonna  is  stupid,  and  the  angel  stupid,  but  the  colour  of 
the  whole,  as  a  piece  of  painted  glass,  lovely  ;  and  the  execu- 
tion exquisite, — at  once  a  painter's  and  jeweller's  ;  with  subtle 
sense  of  chiaroscuro  underneath  ;  (note  the  delicate  shadow  of 
the  Madonna's  arm  across  her  breast). 

The  head  of  this  school  was  (according  to  Vasari)  Taddeo 
Gaddi ;  and  henceforward,  without  further  discussion,  I  shall 
speak  of  him  as  the  painter  of  the  roof  of  the  Spanish  Chapel, — 
not  without  suspicion,  however,  that  his  son  Angelo  may  here- 
after turn  out  to  have  been  the  better  decorator,  and  the 
painter  of  the  frescoes  from  the  life  of  Christ  in  the  north 
transept  of  Assisi, — wTith  such  assistance  as  his  son  or  scholars 
might  give — and  such  change  or  destruction  as  time,  Antonio 
Veneziano,  or  the  last  operations  of  the  Tuscan  railroad  com- 
pany, may  have  etYected  on  them. 

On  the  other  hand,  you  see  that  the  frescos  on  the  walls 


THE  VAULTED  BOOK. 


71 


are  of  paler  colours,  the  blacks  coming  out  of  these  clearly, 
rather  than  the  whites  ;  but  the  pale  colours,  especially,  for 
instance,  the  whole  of  the  Duomo  of  Florence  in  that  on  your 
right,  very  tender  and  lovely.  Also,  you  may  feel  a  tendency 
to  express  much  with  outline,  and  draw,  more  than  paint,  in 
the  most  interesting  parts  ;  while  in  the  duller  ones,  nasty 
green  and  yellow  tones  come  out,  which  prevent  the  effect  of 
the  whole  from  being  very  pleasant.  These  characteristics 
belong,  on  the  who]e,  to  the  school  of  Siena  ;  and  they  indi- 
cate here  the  work  assuredly  of  a  man  of  vast  power  and  most 
refined  education,  whom  I  shall  call  without  further  discus- 
sion, during  the  rest  of  this  and  the  following  morning's 
study,  Simon  Memmi. 

And  of  the  grace  and  subtlety  with  which  he  joined  his 
work  to  that  of  the  Graddis,  you  may  judge  at  once  by  com- 
paring the  Christ  standing  on  the  fallen  gate  of  the  Limbo, 
with  the  Christ  in  the  Resurrection  above.  Memmi  has  re- 
tained the  dress  and  imitated  the  general  effect  of  the  figure 
in  the  roof  so  faithfully  that  you  suspect  no  difference  of  mas- 
tership— nay,  he  has  even  raised  the  foot  in  the  same  awkward 
way  :  but  you  will  find  Memmi's  foot  delicately  drawn — Tad- 
deo's, hard  and  rude :  and  all  the  folds  of  Memmi's  drapery 
cast  with  unbroken  grace  and  complete  gradations  of  shade, 
while  Taddeo's  are  rigid  and  meagre  ;  also  in  the  heads,  gen- 
erally Taddeo's  type  of  face  is  square  in  feature,  with  massive 
and  inelegant  clusters  or  volutes  of  hair  and  beard  ;  but 
Memmi's  delicate  and  long  in  feature,  with  much  divided  and 
flowing  hair,  often  arranged  with  exquisite  precision,  as  in  the 
finest  Greek  coins.  Examine  successively  in  this  respect  only 
the  heads  of  Adam,  Abel,  Methuselah,  and  Abraham,  in  the 
Limbo,  and  you  will  not  confuse  the  two  designers  any  mom 
I  have  not  had  time  to  make  out  more  than  the  principal  figures' 
in  the  Limbo,  of  which  indeed  the  entire  dramatic  power  is 
centred  in  the  Adam  and  Eve.  The  latter  dressed  as  a  nun, 
in  her  fixed  gaze  on  Christ,  with  her  hands  clasped,  is  of  ex- 
treme beauty  :  and  however  feeble  the  work  of  any  early 
painter  may  be,  in  its  decent  and  grave  inoffensiveness  it 
guides  the  imagination  unerringly  to  a  certain  point.  How 


72 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


far  you  are  yourself  capable  of  filling  up  what  is  left  untold, 
and  conceiving,  as  a  reality,  Eve's  first  look  on  this  her  child, 
depends  on  no  painter's  skill,  but  on  your  own  understanding. 
Just  above  Eve  is  Abel,  bearing  the  lamb  :  and  behind  him, 
Noah,  between  his  wife  and  Shem  :  behind  them,  Abraham, 
between  Isaac  and  Ishmael  ;  (turning  from  Ishmael  to  Isaac)  ; 
behind  these,  Moses,  between  Aaron  and  David.  I  have  not 
identified  the  others,  though  I  find  the  white-bearded  figure 
behind  Eve  called  Methuselah  in  my  notes  :  I  know  not  on 
what  authority.  Looking  up  from  these  groups,  however,  to 
the  roof  painting,  you  will  at  once  feel  the  imperfect  grouping 
and  ruder  features  of  all  the  figures  ;  and  the  greater  depth 
of  colour.  We  will  dismiss  these  comparatively  inferior  paint- 
ings at  once. 

The  roof  and  walls  must  be  read  together,  each  segment  of 
the  roof  forming  an  introduction  to,  or  portion  of,  the  subject 
on  the  wall  below.  But  the  roof  must  first  be  looked  at  alone, 
as  the  wTork  of  Taddeo  Gaddi,  for  the  artistic  qualities  and 
failures  of  it. 

I.  In  front,  as  you  enter,  is  the  compartment  with  the  sub- 
ject of  the  Resurrection.  It  is  the  traditional  Byzantine  com- 
position :  the  guards  sleeping,  and  the  two  angels  in  white 
saying  to  the  women,  "  He  is  not  here;"  while  Christ  is  seen 
rising  with  the  flag  of  the  Cross. 

But  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  another  example  of  the  sub- 
ject, so  coldly  treated — so  entirely  without  passion  or  action. 
The  faces  are  expressionless  ;  the  gestures  powerless.  Evi- 
dently the  painter  is  not  making  the  slightest  effort  to  con- 
ceive what  really  happened,  but  merely  repeating  and  spoiling 
what  he  could  remember  of  old  design,  or  himself  supply  of 
commonplace  for  immediate  need.  The  "  Noli  me  tangere," 
on  the  right,  is  spoiled  from  Giotto,  and  others  before  him  ; 
a  peacock,  woefully  plumeless  and  colourless,  a  fountain,  an 
ill  drawn  toy-horse,  and  two  toy -children  gathering  flowers, 
are  emaciate  remains  of  Greek  symbols.  He  has  taken  pains 
with  the  vegetation,  but  in  vain.  Yet  Taddeo  Gaddi  was  a 
true  painter,  a  very  beautiful  designer,  and  a  very  amiable 
person.    How  comes  he  to  do  that  Resurrection  so  badly  ? 


THE  VAULTED  BOOK 


73 


In  the  first  place,  he  was  probably  tired  of  a  subject  which 
was  a  great  strain  to  his  feeble  imagination  ;  and  gave  it  up 
as  impossible  :  doing  simply  the  required  figures  in  the  re- 
quired positions.  In  the  second,  he  was  probably  at  the  time 
despondent  and  feeble  because  of  his  master's  death.  See 
Lord  Lindsay,  II.  273,  where  also  it  is  pointed  out  that  in  the 
effect  of  the  light  proceeding  from  the  figure  of  Christ,  Taddeo 
Gaddi  indeed  was  the  first  of  the  Giottisti  who  showed  true 
sense  of  light  and  shade.  But  until  Lionardo's  time  the  in- 
novation did  not  materially  affect  Florentine  art. 

II.  The  Ascension  (opposite  the  Kesurrection,  and  not 
worth  looking  at,  except  for  the  sake  of  making  more  sure 
our  conclusions  from  the  first  fresco).  The  Madonna  is  fixed 
in  Byzantine  stiffness,  without  Byzantine  dignity. 

HI.  The  Descent  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  on  the  left  hand.  The 
Madonna  and  disciples  are  gathered  in  an  upper  chamber  : 
underneath  are  the  Parthians,  Medes,  Elamites,  etc.,  who  hear 
them  speak  in  their  own  tongues. 

Three  dogs  are  in  the  foreground— their  mythic  purpose 
the  same  as  that  of  the  two  verses  which  affirm  the  fellowship 
of  the  dog  in  the  journey  and  return  of  Tobias :  namely,  to 
mark  the  share  of  the  lower  animals  in  the  gentleness  given 
by  the  outpouring  of  the  Spirit  of  Christ. 

IV.  The  Church  sailing  on  the  Sea  of  the  World.  St.  Peter 
coming  to  Christ  on  the  water. 

I  was  too  little  interested  in  the  vague  symbolism  of  this 
fresco  to  examine  it  with  care — the  rather  that  the  subject  be- 
neath, the  literal  contest  of  the  Church  with  the  world,  needed 
more  time  for  study  in  itself  alone  than  I  had  for  all  Flor- 
ence. 

On  this,  and  the  opposite  side  of  the  chapel,  are  repre- 
sented, by  Simon  Memmi's  hand,  the  teaching  power  of  the 
Spirit  of  God,  and  the  saving  power  of  the  Christ  of  God,  in 
the  world,  according  to  the  understanding  of  Florence  in  his 
time. 

We  will  take  the  side  of  Intellect  first,  beneath  the  pour- 
ing forth  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 

In  the  point  of  the  arch  beneath,  are  the  three  Evangelical 


74 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


Virtues.  Without  these,  says  Florence,  you  can  have  no 
science.    Without  Love,  Faith,  and  Hope — no  intelligence. 

Under  these  are  the  four  Cardinal  Virtues,  the  entire  group 
being  thus  arranged  : — 

A 

B  C 
D      E      F  G 

A,  Charity  ;  flames  issuing  from  her  head  and  hands0 

B,  Faith  ;  holds  cross  and  shield,  quenching  fiery  darta 
This  symbol,  so  frequent  in  modern  adaptation  from  St. 
Paul's  address  to  personal  faith,  is  rare  in  older  art. 

C,  Hope,  with  a  branch  of  lilies. 

X),  Temperance  ;  bridles  a  black  fish,  on  which  she  stands. 

E,  Prudence,  with  a  book. 

F,  Justice,  with  crown  and  baton. 

G,  Fortitude,  with  tower  and  sword. 

Under  these  are  the  great  prophets  and  apostles  ;  on  the 
left,1  David,  Sfc.  Paul,  St.  Mark,  St.  John;  on  the  right,  St. 
Matthew,  St.  Luke,  Moses,  Isaiah,  Solomon.  In  the  midst  ol 
the  Evangelists,  St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  seated  on  a  Gothic 
throne. 

Now  observe,  this  throne,  with  all  the  canopies  below  it, 
and  the  complete  representation  of  the  Duomo  of  Florence 
opposite,  are  of  finished  Gothic  of  Orcagna's  school — later 
than  Giotto's  Gothic.  But  the  building  in  which  the  apos- 
tles are  gathered  at  the  Pentecost  is  of  the  early  Komanesque 
mosaic  school,  with  a  wheel  window  from  the  duomo  of 
Assisi,  and  square  windows  from  the  Baptistery  of  Florence. 
And  this  is  always  the  type  of  architecture  used  by  Taddeo 
Gaddi  :  while  the  finished  Gothic  could  not  possibly  have 
been  drawn  by  him,  but  is  absolute  evidence  of  the  later 
hand. 

Under  the  line  of  prophets,  as  powers  summoned  by  their 
voices,  are  the  mythic  figures  of  the  seven  theological  or  spirit- 
ual, and  the  seven  geological  or  natural  sciences :  and  under 

J  I  can't  find  iny  note  of  the  first  one  on  the  left ;  answering  to  Solo 
inon,  opposite. 


THE  VAULTED  BOOK 


75 


the  feet  of  each  of  them,  the  figure  of  its  Captain-teacher  to 
the  world. 

I  had  better  perhaps  give  you  the  names  of  this  entire 
series  of  figures  from  left  to  right  at  once.  You  will  see 
presently  why  they  are  numbered  in  a  reverse  order. 


Here,  then,  you  have  pictorially  represented,  the  system  of 
manly  education,  supposed  in  old  Florence  to  be  that  neces- 
sarily instituted  in  great  earthly  kingdoms  or  republics,  ani- 
mated by  the  Spirit  shed  down  upon  the  world  at  Pentecost. 
How  long  do  you  think  it  will  take  you,  or  ought  to  take,  to 
see  such  a  picture  ?  We  were  to  get  to  work  this  morning, 
as  early  as  might  be  :  you  have  probably  allowed  half  an  hour 
for  Santa  Maria  Novella  ;  half  an  hour  for  San  Lorenzo ;  an 
hour  for  the  museum  of  sculpture  at  the  Bargello  ;  an  hour 
for  shopping  ;  and  then  it  will  be  lunch  time,  and  you  mustn't 
be  late,  because  you  are  to  leave  by  the  afternoon  train,  and 
must  positively  be  in  Rome  to-morrow  morning.  Well,  of 
your  half-hour  for  Santa  Maria  Novella, — after  Ghirlandajo's 
choir,  Orcagna's  transept,  and  Cimabue's  Madonna,  and  the 
painted  windows,  have  been  seen  properly,  there  will  remain, 
suppose,  at  the  utmost,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  for  the  Spanish 
Chapel.  That  will  give  you  two  minutes  and  a  half  for  each 
side,  two  for  the  ceiling,  and  three  for  studying  Murray's  ex- 
planations or  mine.    Two  minutes  and  a  half  you  have  got, 


Beneath  whom 


8.  Civil  Law. 

9,  Canon  Law 

10.  Practical  Theology. 

11.  Contemplative  Theology. 

12.  Dogmatic  Theology. 

13.  Mystic  Theology. 

14.  Polemic  Theology. 
7.  Arithmetic. 

6.  Geometry. 

5.  Astronomy. 

4.  Music. 

3.  Logic. 

2.  Rhetoric. 

1.  Grammar. 


The  Emperor  Justinian. 
Pope  Clement  V. 
Peter  Lombard. 
Dionysius  the  Areopagite. 
Boethius. 

St.  John  Damascene. 

St.  Augustine. 

Pythagoras. 

Euclid. 

Zoroaster. 

Tubalcain. 

Aristotle. 

Cicero. 

Priscian. 


76 


MOBNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


then — (and  I  observed,  during  my  five  weeks'  work  in  the 
chapel,  that  English  visitors  seldom  gave  so  much) — to  read 
this  scheme  given  you  by  Simon  Memmi  of  human  spiritual 
education.  In  order  to  understand  the  purport  of  it,  in  any 
the  smallest  degree,  you  must  summon  to  your  memory,  in 
the  course  of  these  two  minutes  and  a  half,  what  you  happen 
to  be  acquainted  with  of  the  doctrines  and  characters  of 
Pythagoras,  Zoroaster,  Aristotle,  Dionysius  the  Areopagite, 
St.  Augustine,  and  the  emperor  Justinian,  and  having  further 
observed  the  expressions  and  actions  attributed  by  the  painter 
to  these  personages,  judge  how  far  he  has  succeeded  in  reach- 
ing a  true  and  worthy  ideal  of  them,  and  how  large  or  how 
subordinate  a  part  in  his  general  scheme  of  human  learning 
he  supposes  their  peculiar  doctrines  properly  to  occupy. 
For  myself,  being,  to  my  much  sorrow,  now  an  old  person  ; 
and,  to  my  much  pride,  an  old-fashioned  one,  I  have  not 
found  my  powers  either  of  reading  or  memory  in  the  least 
increased  by  any  of  Mr.  Stephenson's  or  Mr.  Wheatstone's 
inventions  ;  and  though  indeed  I  came  here  from  Lucca  in 
three  hours  instead  of  a  day,  which  it  used  to  take,  I  do  not 
think  myself  able,  on  that  account,  to  see  any  picture  in  Flor- 
ence in  less  time  than  it  took  formerly,  or  even  obliged  to 
hurry  myself  in  any  investigations  connected  with  it. 

Accordingly,  I  have  myself  taken  five  weeks  to  see  the  quar- 
ter of  this  picture  of  Simon  Memmi's :  and  can  give  you  a 
fairly  good  account  of  that  quarter,  and  some  partial  account 
of  a  fragment  or  two  of  those  on  the  other  walls  :  but,  alas  ! 
only  of  their  pictorial  qualities  in  either  case  ;  for  I  don't  my- 
self know  anything  whatever,,  worth  trusting  to,  about  Pythag- 
oras, or  Dionysius  the  Areopagite  ;  and  have  not  had,  and 
never  shall  have,  probably,  any  time  to  learn  much  of  them  * 
while  in  the  very  feeblest  light  only, — in  what  the  French 
would  express  by  their  excellent  word  'lueur,' — I  am  able  to 
understand  something  of  the  characters  of  Zoroaster,  Aristotle, 
and  Justinian.  But  this  only  increases  in  me  the  reverence 
with  which  I  ought  to  stand  before  the  work  of  a  painter,  who 
was  not  only  a  master  of  his  own  craft,  but  so  profound  a 
scholar  and  theologian  as  to  be  able  to  conceive  this  scheme 


THE  STRAIT  GATE. 


77 


of  picture,  and  write  the  divine  law  by  which  Florence  was  to 
live.  Which  Law,  written  in  the  northern  page  of  this  Vaulted 
Book,  we  will  begin  quiet  interpretation  of,  if  you  care  to  re- 
turn hither,  to-morrow  morning. 


THE  FIFTH  MORNING. 

•      THE  STRAIT  GATE. 

As  you  return  this  morning  to  St.  Mary's,  you  may  as  well 
observe — the  matter  before  us  being  concerning  gates, — that 
the  western  facade  of  the  church  is  of  two  periods.  Your 
Murray  refers  it  all  to  the  latest  of  these  ; — I  forget  when,  and 
do  not  care  ; — in  which  the  largest  flanking  columns,  and  the 
entire  effective  mass  of  the  walls,  with  their  riband  mosaics 
and  high  pediment,  were  built  in  front  of,  and  above,  what 
the  barbarian  renaissance  designer  chose  to  leave  of  the  pure 
old  Dominican  church.  You  may  see  his  ungainly  jointings 
at  the  pedestals  of  the  great  columns,  running  through  the 
pretty,  parti-coloured  base,  which,  with  the  c  Strait '  Gothic 
doors,  and  the  entire  lines  of  the  fronting  and  flanking  tombs 
(where  not  restored  by  the  Devil-begotten  brood  of  modern 
Florence),  is  of  pure,  and  exquisitely  severe  and  refined,  four- 
teenth century  Gothic,  with  superbly  carved  bearings  on  its 
shields.  The  small  detached  line  of  tombs  on  the  left,  un- 
touched in  its  sweet  colour  and  living  weed  ornament,  I  would 
fain  have  painted,  stone  by  stone  :  but  one  can  never  draw  in 
front  of  a  church  in  these  republican  days  ;  for  all  the  black- 
guard children  of  the  neighbourhood  come  to  howl,  and  throw 
stones,  on  the  steps,  and  the  ball  or  stone  play  against  these 
sculptured  tombs,  as  a  dead  wall  adapted  for  that  purpose 
only,  is  incessant  in  the  fine  days  when  I  could  have  worked. 

If  you  enter  by  the  door  most  to  the  left,  or  north,  and  turn 
immediately  to  the  right,  on  the  interior  of  the  wall  of  the  fa- 
cade is  an  Annunciation,  visible  enough  because  well  preserved, 
though  in  the  dark,  and  extremely  pretty  in  its  way, — of  the 


78 


MORNINGS  JN  FLORENCE. 


decorated  and  ornamental  school  following  Giotto  : — I  can't 
guess  by  whom,  nor  does  it  much  matter  ;  but  it  is  well  to 
look  at  it  by  way  of  contrast  with  the  delicate,  intense,  slightly 
decorated  design  of  Mem  mi, — in  which,  when  you  return  into 
the  Spanish  chapel,  you  will  feel  the  dependence  for  its  effect 
on  broad  masses  of  white  and  pale  amber,  where  the  decorative 
.school  would  have  had  mosaic  of  red,  blue,  and  gold. 

Our  first  business  this  morning  must  be  to  read  and  under- 
stand the  writing  on  the  book  held  open  by  St.  Thomas  Aqui- 
nas, for  that  informs  us  of  the  meaning  of  the  whole  picture. 

It  is  this  text  from  the  Book  of  Wisdom  vn.  6. 

"  Optavi,  et  datus  est  mihi  sensus. 

Invocavi,  et  venit  in  me  Spiritus  Sapientiae, 
Et  preposui  illam  regnis  et  sedibas.'> 

"  I  willed,  and  Sense  was  given  me. 
I  prayed,  and  the  Spirit  of  Wisdom  came  upon  me. 
And  I  set  her  before,  (preferred  her  to,)  kingdoms 
and  thrones." 

The  common  translation  in  our  English  Apocrypha  loses  the 
entire  meaning  of  this  passage,  which — not  only  as  the  state- 
ment of  the  experience  of  Florence  in  her  own  education,  but 
as  universally  descriptive  of  the  process  of  all  noble  education 
whatever — we  had  better  take  pains  to  understand. 

First,  says  Florence  "  I  willed,  (in  sense  of  resolutely  desir- 
ing,) and  Sense  was  given  me."  You  must  begin  your  educa- 
tion with  the  distinct  resolution  to  know  what  is  true,^md 
choice  of  the  strait  and  rough  road  to  such  knowledge. 
This  choice  is  offered  to  every  youth  and  maid  at  some  moment 
of  their  life  ; — choice  between  the  easy  downward  road,  so 
broad  that  we  can  dance  down  it  in  companies,  and  the  steep 
narrow  way,  which  we  must  enter  alone.  Then,  and  for  many 
a  day  afterwards,  they  need  that  form  of  persistent  Option, 
and  Will  :  but  day  by  day,  the  '  Sense  5  of  the  rightness  of 
what  they  have  done,  deepens  on  them,  not  in  consequence 
of  the  effort,  but  by  gift  granted  in  reward  of  it.  And  the 
Sense  of  difference  between  right  and  wrong,  and  between 


THE  STRAIT  GATE. 


79 


beautiful  and  unbeautiful  things,  is  confirmed  in  the  heroic, 
and  fulfilled  in  the  industrious,  soul. 

That  is  the  process  of  education  in  the  earthly  sciences,  and 
the  morality  connected  with  them.  Keward  given  to  faithful 
Volition. 

Next,  when  Moral  and  Physical  senses  are  perfect,  comes 
the  desire  for  education  in  the  higher  world,  where  the  senses 
are  no  more  our  Teachers  ;  but  the  Maker  of  the  senses.  And 
that  teaching,  we  cannot  get  by  labour,  but  only  by  petition. 

"  Invocavi,  et  venit  in  me  Spiritus  Sapientise  " — "  I  prayed, 
and  the  Spirit  of  Wisdom,"  (not,  you  observe,  was  given,1 
but,)  "came  upon  me."  The  personal  power  of  Wisdom  :  the 
"  croc/ua  "  or  Santa  Sophia,  to  wThom  the  first  great  Christian 
temple  was  dedicated.  This  higher  wisdom,  governing  by  her 
presence,  all  earthly  conduct,  and  by  her  teaching,  all  earthly 
art,  Florence  tells  you,  she  obtained  only  by  prayer.  . 

And  these  two  Earthly  and  Divine  sciences  are  expressed 
beneath  in  the  symbols  of  their  divided  powers  ; — Seven  ter- 
restrial, Seven  celestial,  whose  names  have  been  already  in- 
dicated to  you  : — in  which  figures  I  must  point  out  one  or  two 
technical  matters,  before  touching  their  interpretation.  They 
are  all  by  Simon  Memmi  originally  ;  but  repainted,  many  of 
them  all  over,  some  hundred  years  later, — (certainly  after  the 
discovery  of  America,  as  you  will  see) — by  an  artist  of  con- 
siderable power,  and  some  feeling  for  the  general  action  of 
the  figures ;  but  of  no  refinement  or  carelessness.  He  dashes 
massive  paint  in  huge  spaces  over  the  subtle  old  work,  puts  in 
his"  own  chiaro-oscuro  where  all  had  been  shadeless,  and  his 
own  violent  colour  where  all  had  been  pale,  and  repaints  the 
faces  so  as  to  make  them,  to  his  notion,  prettier  and  more 
human  :  some  of  this  upper  work  has,  however,  come  away 
since,  and  the  original  outline,  at  least,  is  traceable  ;  while 
in  the  face  of  the  Logic,  the  Music,  and  one  or  two  others,  the 
original  work  is  very  pure.  Being  most  interested  myself  in 
the  earthly  sciences,  I  had  a  scaffolding  put  up,  made  on  a 
level  with  them,  and  examined  them  inch  by  inch,  and  the 
following  report  will  be  found  accurate  until  next  repainting. 
1 1  in  careless  error,  wrote  u  was  given  "  in  '  Fors  Clavigera. 


80 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


For  interpretation  of  them,  you  must  always  take  the  cen- 
tral figure  of  the  Science,  with  the  little  medallion  above  it, 
and  the  figure  below,  all  together.  Which  I  proceed  to  do, 
reading  first  from  left  to  right  for  the  earthly  sciences,  and 
then  from  right  to  left  the  heavenly-  ones,  to  the  centre,  where 
their  two  highest  powers  sit,  side  by  side. 

We  begin,  then,  with  the  first  in  the  list  given  above, 
(Vaulted  Book,  page  75) : — Grammar,  in  the  corner  farthest 
from  the  wdndow. 

1.  Grammar  :  more  properly  Grammatice,  "  Grammatic 
Act"  the  Art  of  Letters  or  "Literature,"  or  using  the  word 
which  to  some  English  ears  will  carry  most  weight  with  it, — 
"  Scripture,"  and  its  use.  The  Art  of  faithfully  reading  what 
has  been  written  for  our  learning  ;  and  of  clearly  writing 
what  we  would  make  immortal  of  our  thoughts.  Power 
which  consists  first  in  recognizing  letters  ;  secondly,  in  form- 
ing them  ;  thirdly,  in  the  understanding  and  choice  of  words 
which  errorless  shall  express  our  thought.  Severe  exercises 
all,  reaching — very  few  living  persons  know,  how  far  :  begin- 
ning properly  in  childhood,  then  only  to  be  truly  acquired. 
It  is  wholly  impossible — this  I  say  from  too  sorrowful  expe- 
rience— to  conquer  by  any  effort  or  time,  habits  of  the  hand 
(much  more  of  head  and  soul)  with  which  the  vase  of  flesh 
has  been  formed  and  filled  in  youth, — the  law  of  God  being 
that  parents  shall  compel  the  child  in  the  day  of  its  obedience 
into  habits  of  hand,  and  eye,  and  soul,  which,  when  it  is  old, 
shall  not,  by  any  strength,  or  any  weakness,  be  departed 
from. 

"Enter  ye  in,"  therefore,  says  Grammatice,  "at  the  Strait 
Gate."  She  points  through  it  with  her  rod,,  holding  a  fruit  (?) 
for  reward,  in  her  left  hand.  The  gate  is  very  strait  indeed — 
her  own  waist  no  less  so,  her  hair  fastened  close.  She  had  once 
a  white  veil  binding  it,  which  is  lost.  Not  a  gushing  form  of 
literature,  this, — or  in  any  wise  disposed  to  subscribe  to  Mu- 
die's,  my  English  friends— or  even  patronize  Tauchnitz  edi- 
tions of — what  is  the  last  new  novel  you  see  ticketed  up  to- 
day in  Mr.  Goodban's  window?    She  looks  kindly  down, 


THE  STRAIT  GATE. 


81 


nevertheless,  to  the  three  children  whom  she  is  teaching — • 
two  boys  and  a  girl :  (Qy.  Does  this  mean  that  one  girl  out 
of  every  two  should  not  be  able  to  read  or  write  ?  I  am  quite 
willing  to  accept  that  inference,  for  my  own  part, — should 
perhaps  even  say,  two  girls  out  of  three).  This  girl  is  of  the 
highest  classes,  crowned,  her  golden  hair  falling  behind  her, 
the  Florentine  girdle  round  her  hips — (not  waist,  the  object 
being  to  leave  the  lungs  full  play  ;  but  to  keep  the  dress  al- 
ways well  down  in  dancing  or  running).  The  boys  are  of 
good  birth  also,  the  nearest  one  with  luxuriant  curly  hair — 
only  the  profile  of  the  farther  one  seen.  All  reverent  and 
eager.  Above,  the  medallion  is  of  a  figure  looking  at  a  foun- 
tain. Underneath,  Lord  Lindsay  says,  Priscian,  and  is,  I 
doubt  not,  right. 

Technical  Points. — The  figure  is  said  by  Crowe  to  be  en- 
tirely repainted.  The  dress  is  so  throughout — both  the  hands 
also,  and  the  fruit,  and  rod.  But  the  eyes,  mouth,  hair  above 
the  forehead,  and  outline  of  the  rest,  with  the  faded  veil,  and 
happily,  the  traces  left  of  the  children,  are  genuine  ;  the 
strait  gate  perfectly  so,  in  the  colour  underneath,  though  re- 
inforced ;  and  the  action  of  the  entire  figure  is  well  preserved : 
but  there  is  a  curious  question  about  both  the  rod  and  fruit, 
Seen  close,  the  former  perfectly  assumes  the  shape  of  folds  of 
dress  gathered  up  over  the  raised  right  arm,  and  I  am  not  ab- 
solutely sure  that  the  restorer  has  not  mistaken  the  folds — at 
the  same  time  changing  a  pen  or  style  into  a  rod.  The  fruit 
also  I  have  doubts  of,  as  fruit  is  not  so  rare  at  Florence  that 
it  should  be  made  a  reward.  It  is  entirely  and  roughly  re- 
painted, and  is  oval  in  shape.  In  Giotto's  Charity,  luckily 
not  restored,  at  Assisi,  the  guide-books  have  always  mistaken 
the  heart  she  holds  for  an  apple  : — and  my  own  belief  is  that 
originally,  the  Grammatice  of  Simon  Mem  mi  made  with  her 
right  hand  the  sign  which  said,  "  Enter  ye  in  at  the  Strait 
Gate,"  and  with  her  left,  the  sign  which  said,  "My  son,  give 
me  thine  Heart." 

II.  Rhetoric.  Next  to  learning  how  to  read  and  write,  you 
are  to  learn  to  speak  ;  and,  young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  ob« 


82 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


serve, — to  speak  as  little  as  possible,  it  is  farther  implied,  till 
you  have  learned. 

In  the  streets  of  Florence  at  this  day  you  may  hear  much 
of  what  some  people  call  "  rhetoric  " — very  passionate  speak- 
ing indeed,  and  quite  "  from  the  heart " — such  hearts  as  the 
people  have  got.  That  is  to  say,  you  never  hear  a  word  ut- 
tered but  in  a  rage,  either  just  ready  to  burst,  or  for  the  most 
part,  explosive  instantly :  everybody — man,  woman,  or  child 
■ — roaring  out  their  incontinent,  foolish,  infinitely  contempti- 
ble opinions  and  wills,  on  every  smallest  occasion,  with  flash- 
ing eyes,  hoarsely  shrieking  and  wasted  voices, — insane  hope 
to  drag  by  vociferation  whatever  they  would  have,  out  of  man 
and  God. 

Now  consider  Simon  Memmi's  Rhetoric.  The  Science  of 
Speaking,  primarily  ;  of  making  oneself  heard  therefore : 
which  is  not  to  be  done  by  shouting.  She  alone,  of  all  the 
sciences,  carries  a  scroll :  and  being  a  speaker  gives  you  some- 
thing to  read.  It  is  not  thrust  forward  at  you  at  all,  but  held 
quietly  down  with  her  beautiful  depressed  right  hand  ;  her 
left  hand  set  coolly  and  strongly  on  her  side. 

And  you  will  find  that,  thus,  she  alone  of  all  the  sciences 
needs  no  use  of  her  hands.  All  the  others  have  some  impor- 
tant business  for  them.  She  none.  She  can  do  all  with  her 
lips,  holding  scroll,  or  bridle,  or  what  you  will,  with  her  right 
hand,  her  left  on  her  side. 

Again,  look  at  the  talkers  in  the  streets  of  Florence,  and 
see  how,  being  essentially  unable  to  talk,  they  try  to  make  lips 
of  their  fingers  !  How  they  poke,  wave,  flourish,  point,  jerk, 
shake  finger  and  fist  at  their  antagonists — dumb  essentially, 
all  the  while,  if  they  knew  it;  unpersuasive  and  ineffectual, 
as  the  shaking  of  tree  branches  in  the  wind. 

You  will  at  first  think  her  figure  ungainly  and  stiff.  It  is  so, 
partly,  the  dress  being  more  coarsely  repainted  than  in  any 
other  of  the  series.  But  she  is  meant  to  be  both  stout  and 
strong.  What  she  has  to  say  is  indeed  to  persuade  you,  if 
possible  ;  but  assuredly  to  overpower  you.  And  she  has  not 
the  Florentine  girdle,  for  she  does  not  want  to  move.  She 
has  her  girdle  broad  at  the  waist — of  all  the  sciences,  you 


THE  STRAIT  GATE. 


83 


would  at  first  have  thought,  the  one  that  most  needed  breath ! 
No,  says  Simon  Mem  mi.  You  want  breath  to  run,  or  dance, 
or  fight  with.  But  to  speak  ! — If  you  know  how,  you  can  do 
your  work  with  few  words  ;  very  little  of  this  pure  Florentine 
air  will  be  enough,  if  you  shape  it  rightly. 

Note,  also,  that  calm  setting  of  her  hand  against  her  side. 
You  think  Rhetoric  should  be  glowing,  fervid,  impetuous  ? 
No,  says  Simon  Mem  mi.    Above  all  things, — cool. 

And  now  let  us  read  what  is  written  on  her  scroll : — Mul- 
ceo,  dum  loquor,  varioS  induta  colores. 

Her  chief  function,  to  melt  ;  make  soft,  thaw  the  hearts  of 
men  with  kind  lire ;  to  overpower  with  peace  ;  and  bring  rest, 
with  rainbow  colours.  The  chief  mission  of  all  words  that 
they  should  be  of  comfort. 

You  think  the  function  of  words  is  to  excite  ?  Why,  a  red 
rag  will  do  that,  or  a  blast  through  a  brass  pipe.  But  to  give 
calm  and  gentle  heat  ;  to  be  as  the  south  wind,  and  the  irides- 
cent rain,  to  all  bitterness  of  frost ;  and  bring  at  once 
strength,  and  healing.  This  is  the  work  of  human  lips,  taught 
of  God. 

One  farther  and  final  lesson  is  given  in  the  medallion  above. 
Aristotle,  and  too  many  modern  rhetoricians  of  his  school, 
thought  there  could  be  good  speaking  in  a  false  cause.  But 
above  Simon  Memmi's  Rhetoric  is  Truth,  with  her  mirror. 

There  is  a  curious  feeling,  almost  innate  in  men,  that  though 
they  are  bound  to  speak  truth,  in  speaking  to  a  single  person, 
they  may  lie  as  much  as  they  please,  provided  they  lie  to  two 
or  more  people  at  once.  There  is  the  same  feeling  about  kill- 
ing :  most  people  would  shrink  from  shooting  one  innocent 
man  ;  but  will  fire  a  mitrailleuse  contentedly  into  an  innocent 
regiment. 

"When  you  look  down  from  the  figure  of  the  Science,  to 
that  of  Cicero,  beneath,  you  will  at  first  think  it  entirely  over- 
throws my  conclusion  that  Rhetoric  has  no  need  of  her  hands. 
For  Cicero,  it  appears,  has  three  instead  of  two. 

The  uppermost,  at  his  chin,  is  the  only  genuine  one.  That 
raised,  with  the  finger  up,  is  entirely  false.  That  on  the  book, 
is  repainted  so  as  to  defy  conjecture  of  its  original  action. 


84 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


But  observe  how  the  gesture  of  the  true  one  confirms  instead 
of  overthrowing  what  I  have  said  above.  Cicero  is  not  speak- 
ing at  all,  but  profoundly  thinking  before  he  speaks.  It  is  the 
most  abstractedly  thoughtful  face  to  be  found  among  all  the 
philosophers  ;  and  very  beautiful.  The  whole  is  under  Solo- 
mon, in  the  line  of  Prophets. 

Technical  Points. — These  two  figures  have  suffered  from 
restoration  more  than  any  others,  but  the  right  hand  of  Khet- 
oric  is  still  entirely  genuine,  and  the  left,  except  the  ends  of 
the  fingers.  The  ear,  and  hair  just  above  it,  are  quite  safe, 
the  head  well  set  on  its  original  line,  but  the  crown  of  leaves 
rudely  retouched,  and  then  faded.  All  the  lower  part  of  the 
figure  of  Cicero  has  been  not  only  repainted  but  changed  ; 
the  face  is  genuine — I  believe  retouched,  but  so  cautiously 
and  skilfully,  that  it  is  probably  now  more  beautiful  than  at 
first. 

III.  Logic.  The  science  of  reasoning,  or  more  accurately 
Reason  herself,  or  pure  intelligence. 

Science  to  be  gained  after  that  of  Expression,  says  Simon 
Memmi ;  so,  young  people,  it  appears,  that  though  you  must 
not  speak  before  you  have  been  taught  how  to  speak,  you 
may  yet  properly  speak  before  you  have  been  taught  how  to 
think. 

For  indeed,  it  is  only  by  frank  speaking  that  you  can  learn 
how  to  think.  And  it  is  no  matter  how  wrong  the  first 
thoughts  you  have  may  be,  provided  you  express  them  clearly  j 
— and  are  willing  to  have  them  put  right. 

Fortunately,  nearly  all  of  this  beautiful  figure  is  practically 
safe,  the  outlines  pure  everywhere,  and  the  face  perfect :  the 
prettiest,  as  far  as  I  know,  which  exists  in  Italian  art  of  this 
early  date.  It  is  subtle  to  the  extreme  in  gradations  of 
colour :  the  eyebrows  drawn,  not  with  a  sweep  of  the  brush, 
but  with  separate  cross  touches  in  the  line  of  their  growth— 
exquisitely  pure  in  arch  ;  the  nose  straight  and  fine  ;  the 
lips — playful  slightly,  proud,  unerringly  cut ;  the  hair  flowing 
in  sequent  waves,  ordered  as  if  in  musical  time  ;  head  per- 


THE  STRAIT  GATE. 


85 


fectly  upright  on  the  shoulders  ;  the  height  of  the  brow  com- 
pleted by  a  crimson  frontlet  set  with  pearls,  surmounted  by  a 
fleur-de-lys. 

Her  shoulders  were  exquisitely  drawn,  her  white  jacket 
fitting  close  to  soft,  yet  scarcely  rising  breasts  ;  her  arms  sin- 
gularly strong,  at  perfect  rest ;  her  hands,  exquisitely  delicate^ 
In  her  right,  she  holds  a  branching  and  leaf-bearing  rod,  (the 
syllogism)  ;  in  her  left,  a  scorpion  with  double  sting,  (the 
dilemma) — more  generally,  the  powers  of  rational  construction 
and  dissolution. 

Beneath  her,  Aristotle, — intense  keenness  of  search  in  his 
half-closed  eyes. 

Medallion  above,  (less  expressive  than  usual)  a  man  writing, 
with  his  head  stooped. 

The  whole  under  Isaiah,  in  the  line  of  Prophets. 

Technical  Points. — The  only  parts  of  this  figure  which  have 
suffered  seriously  in  repainting  are  the  leaves  of  the  rod,  and 
the  scorpion.  I  have  no  idea,  as  I  said  above,  what  the  back- 
ground once  was  ;  it  is  now  a  mere  mess  of  scrabbled  grey, 
carried  over  the  vestiges,  still  with  care  much  redeemable,  of 
the  richly  ornamental  extremity  of  the  rod,  which  was  a 
cluster  of  green  leaves  on  a  black  ground.  But  the  scorpion 
is  indecipherably  injured,  most  of  it  confused  repainting, 
mixed  with  the  white  of  the  dress,  the  double  sting  emphatic 
enough  still,  but  not  on  the  first  lines. 

The  Aristotle  is  very  genuine  throughout,  except  his  hat, 
and  I  think  that  must  be  pretty  nearly  on  the  old  lines, 
through  I  cannot  trace  them.  They  are  good  lines,  new  or 
old. 

IV.  Music.  After  you  have  learned  to  reason,  young  peo- 
ple, of  course  you  will  be  very  grave,  if  not  dull,  you  think. 
No,  says  Simon  Memmi.  By  no  means  anything  of  the  kind. 
After  learning  to  reason,  you  will  learn  to  sing  ;  for  you  will 
want  to.  There  is  so  much  reason  for  singing  in  the  sweet 
world,  when  one  things  rightly  of  it.  None  for  grumbling, 
provided  always  you  have  entered  in  at  the  strait  gate.  You 


86 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


will  sing  all  along  the  road  then,  in  a  little  while,  in  a  manner 
pleasant  for  other  people  to  hear. 

This  figure  has  been  one  of  the  loveliest  in  the  series,  an 
extreme  refinement  and  tender  severity  being  aimed  at 
throughout.  She  is  crowned,  not  with  laurel,  but  with  small 
leaves, — I  am  not  sure  what  they  are,  being  too  much  in- 
jured :  the  face  thin,  abstracted,  wistful  ;  the  lips  not  far 
open  in  their  low  singing  ;  the  hair  rippling  softly  on  the 
shoulders.  She  plays  on  a  small  organ,  richly  ornamented 
with  Gothic  tracery,  the  down  slope  of  it  set  with  crockets 
like  those  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore.  Simon  Memmi  means 
that  all  music  must  be."  sacred."  Not  that  you  are  never  to 
sing  anything  but  hymns,  but  that  whatever  is  rightly  called 
music,  or  work  of  the  Muses,  is  divine  in  help  and  healing. 

The  actions  of  both  hands  are  singularly  sweet.  The  right 
is  one  of  the  loveliest  things  I  ever  saw  done  in  painting. 
She  is  keeping  down  one  note  only,  with  her  third  finger, 
seen  under  the  raised  fourth  :  the  thumb,  just  passing  under  ; 
all  the  curves  of  the  fingers  exquisite,  and  the  pale  light  and 
shade  of  the  rosy  flesh  relieved  against  the  ivory  white  and 
brown  of  the  notes.  Only  the  thumb  and  end  of  the  forefin- 
ger are  seen  of  the  left  hand,  but  they  indicate  enough  its 
light  pressure  on  the  bellows.  Fortunately,  all  these  portions 
of  the  fresco  are  absolutely  intact. 

"Underneath,  Tubal-Cain.  Not  Jubal,  as  you  would  expect. 
Jubal  is  the  inventor  of  musical  instruments.  Tubal-Cain, 
thought  the  old  Florentines,  invented  harmony.  They,  the  best 
smiths  in  the  world,  knew  the  differences  in  tones  of  hammer 
strokes  on  anvil.  Curiously  enough,  the  only  piece  of  true 
part-singing,  done  beautifully  and  joyfully,  which  I  have 
heard  this  year  in  Italy,  (being  south  of  Alps  exactly  six 
months,  and  ranging  from  Genoa  to  Palermo)  was  out  of  a 
busy  smithy  at  Perugia.  Of  bestial  howling,  and  entirely 
frantic  vomiting  up  of  hopelessly  damned  souls  through  their 
still  carnal  throats,  I  have  heard  more  than,  please  God,  I 
will  ever  endure  the  hearing  of  again  in  one  of  His  summers. 

You  think  Tubal-Cain  very  ugly?  Yes.  Much  like  a 
shaggy  baboon  :  not  accidentally,  but  with  most  scientific 


THE  STRAIT  GATE. 


87 


understanding  of  baboon  character.  Men  must  have  looked 
like  that,  before  they  had  invented  harmony,  or  felt  that  one 
note  differed  from  another,  says,  and  knows  Simon  Memmi. 
Darwinism,  like  all  widely  popular  and  widely  mischievous 
fallacies,  has  many  a  curious  gleam  and  grain  of  truth  in  its 
tissue. 

Under  Moses. 

Medallion,  a  youth  drinking.  Otherwise,  you  might  have 
thought  only  church  music  meant,  and  not  feast  music  also. 

Technical  Points. — The  Tubal-Cain,  one  of  the  most  entirely 
pure  and  precious  remnants  of  the  old  painting,  nothing  lost : 
nothing  but  the  redder  ends  of  his  beard  retouched.  Green 
dress  of  Music,  in  the  body  and  over  limbs  entirely  repainted  : 
it  was  once  beautifully  embroidered  ;  sleeves,  partly  genuine, 
hands  perfect,  face  and  hair  nearly  so.  Leaf  crown  faded  and 
broken  away,  but  not  retouched. 

V.  Astronomy.  Properly  Astro-logy,  as  (Theology)  the 
knowledge  of  so  much  of  the  stars  as  we  can  know  wisely  ; 
not  the  attempt  to  define  their  laws  for  them.  Not  that  it  is 
unbecoming  of  us  to  find  out,  if  we  can,  that  they  move  in 
ellipses,  and  so  on  ;  but  it  is  no  business  of  ours.  What  ef- 
fects their  rising  and  setting  have  on  man,  and  beast,  and 
leaf ;  what  their  times  and  changes  are,  seen  and  felt  in  this 
world,  it  is  our  business  to  know,  passing  our  nights,  if  wake- 
fully,  by  that  divine  candlelight,  and  no  other. 

She  wears  a  dark  purple  robe ;  holds  in  her  left  hand  the 
hollow  globe  with  golden  zodiac  and  meridians  :  lifts  her  right 
hand  in  noble  awe. 

"  When  I  consider  the  heavens,  the  work  of  Thy  fingers,  the 
moon  and  the  stars,  which  Thou  hast  ordained." 

Crowned  with  gold,  her  dark  hair  in  elliptic  waves,  bound 
with  glittering  chains  of  pearl.    Her  eyes  dark,  lifted. 

Beneath  her,  Zoroaster,1  entirely  noble  and  beautiful,  the 

1  Atlas !  according  to  poor  Vasari,  and  sundry  modern  guides.  I  find 
Vasari's  mistakes  usually  of  this  brightly  blundering  kind.  In  matters 
needing  research,  after  a  while,  I  find  he  is  right,  usually. 


ss 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


delicate  Persian  head  made  softer  still  by  the  elaborately 
wreathed  silken  hair,  twisted  into  the  pointed  beard,  and  into 
tapering  plaits,  falling  on  his  shoulders.  The  head  entirely 
thrown  back,  he  looks  up  with  no  distortion  of  the  delicately 
arched  brow :  writing,  as  he  gazes. 

For  the  association  of  the  religion  of  the  Magi  with  their  own 
in  the  mind  of  the  Florentines  of  this  time,  see  "  Before  the 
Soldan." 

The  dress  must  always  have  been  white,  because  of  its 
beautiful  opposition  to  the  purple  above  and  that  of  Tubal- 
Cain  beside  it.  But  it  has  been  too  much  repainted  to  be 
trusted  anywhere,  nothing  left  but  a  fold  or  two  in  the  sleeves. 
The  cast  of  it  from  the  knees  down  is  entirely  beautiful,  and 
I  suppose  on  the  old  lines  ;  but  the  restorer  could  throw  a 
fold  well  when  he  chose.  The  warm  light  which  relieves  the 
purple  of  Zoroaster  above,  is  laid  in  by  him.  I  don't  know  if 
I  should  have  liked  it  better,  flat,  as  it  was,  against  the  dark 
purple  ;  it  seems  to  me  quite  beautiful  now.  The  full  red 
flush  on  the  face  of  the  Astronomy  is  the  restorer's  doing  also. 
She  was  much  paler,  if  not  quite  pale. 

Under  St.  Luke. 

Medallion,  a  stern  man,  with  sickle  and  spade.  For  the 
flowers,  and  for  us,  when  stars  have  risen  and  set  such  and 
such  times  ; — remember. 

Technical  Points. — Left  hand  globe,  most  of  the  important 
folds  of  the  purple  dress,  eyes,  mouth,  hair  in  great  part,  and 
crown,  genuine.  Golden  tracery  on  border  of  dress  lost ; 
extremity  of  falling  folds  from  left  sleeve  altered  and  con- 
fused, but  the  confusion  prettily  got  out  of.  Bight  hand  and 
much  of  face  and  body  of  dress  repainted. 

Zoroaster's  head  quite  pure.  Dress  repainted,  but  carefully, 
leaving  the  hair  untouched.  Bight  hand  and  pen,  now  a  com- 
mon feathered  quill,  entirely  repainted,  but  dexterously  and 
with  feeling.  The  hand  was  once  slightly  different  in  position, 
and  held,  most  probably,  a  reed. 

VI.  Geometry.  You  have  now  learned,  young  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  to  read,  to  speak,  to  think,  to  sing,  and  to  see. 


THE  STRAIT  GATE. 


89 


You  are  getting  old,  and  will  have  soon  to  think  of  being 
married  ;  you  must  learn  to  build  your  house,  therefore. 
Here  is  your  carpenter's  square  for  you,  and  you  may  safely 
and  wisely  contemplate  the  ground  a  little,  and  the  measures 
and  laws  relating  to  that,  seeing  you  have  got  to  abide  upon 
it : — and  that  you  have  properly  looked  at  the  stars  ;  not  be- 
fore  then,  lest,  had  you  studied  the  ground  first,  you  might 
perchance  never  have  raised  your  heads  from  it.  This  is 
properly  the  science  of  all  laws  of  practical  labour,  issuing  in 
beauty. 

She  looks  down,  a  little  puzzled,  greatly  interested,  holding 
her  carpenter's  square  in  her  left  hand,  not  wanting  that  but 
for  practical  work  ;  following  a  diagram  with  her  right. 

Her  beauty,  altogether  soft  and  in  curves,  I  commend  to 
your  notice,  as  the  exact  opposite  of  what  a  vulgar  designer 
would  have  imagined  for  her.  Note  the  wTreath  of  hair  at 
the  back  of  her  head,  which  though  fastened  by  a  spiral  fillet, 
escapes  at  last,  and  flies  off  loose  in  a  sweeping  curve.  Con- 
templative Theology  is  the  only  other  of  the  sciences  who  has 
such  wavy  hair. 

Beneath  her,  Euclid,  in  white  turban.  Very  fine  and  origi- 
nal work  throughout ;  but  nothing  of  special  interest  in  him. 

Under  St.  Matthew. 

Medallion,  a  soldier  with  a  straight  sword  (best  for  science 
of  defence),  octagon  shield,  helmet  like  the  beehive  of  Canton 
Vaud.  As  the  secondary  use  of  music  in  feasting,  so  the  sec- 
ondary use  of  geometry  in  war — her  noble  art  being  all  in 
sweetest  peace — is  shown  in  the  medallion. 

Technical  Points. — It  is  more  than  fortunate  that  in  nearly 
every  figure,  the  original  outline  of  the  hair  is  safe.  Geome- 
try's has  scarcely  been  retouched  at  all,  except  at  the  ends, 
once  in  single  knots,  now  in  confused  double  ones.  The 
hands,  girdle,  most  of  her  dress,  and  her  black  carpenter's 
square  are  original.    Face  and  breast  repainted. 

VH.  Arithmetic.  Having  built  your  house,  young  people, 
and  understanding  the  light  of  heaven,  and  the  measures  cf 


90 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


earth,  you  may  marry — and  can't  do  better.  And  here  is  now 
your  conclusive  science,  which  you  will  have  to-  apply,  all 
your  days,  to  all  your  affairs. 

The  Science  of  Number.  Infinite  in  solemnity  of  use  in 
Italy  at  this  time  ;  including,  of  course,  whatever  was  known 
of  the  higher  abstract  mathematics  and  mysteries  of  numbers, 
but  reverenced  especially  in  its  vital  necessity  to  the  prosper- 
ity of  families  and  kingdoms,  and  first  fully  so  understood 
here  in  commercial  Florence. 

Her  hand  lifted,  with  two  fingers  bent,  two  straight,  sol- 
emnly enforcing  on  your  attention  her  primal  law — Two  and 
two  are  —  four,  you  observe,  —  not  five,  as  those  accursed 
usurers  think. 

Under  her,  Pythagoras. 

Above,  medallion  of  king,  with  sceptre  and  globe,  counting 
money.  Have  you  ever  chanced  to  read  carefully  Carlyle's 
account  of  the  foundation  of  the  existing  Prussian  empire,  in 
economy  ? 

You  can,  at  all  events,  consider  with  yourself  a  little,  what 
empire  this  queen  of  the  terrestrial  sciences  must  hold  over 
the  rest,  if  they  are  to  be  put  to  good  use  ;  or  what  depth  and 
breadth  of  application  there  is  in  the  brief  parables  of  the 
counted  cost  of  Power,  and  number  of  Armies. 

To  give  a  very  minor,  but  characteristic,  instance.  I  have 
always  felt  that  with  my  intense  love  of  the  Alps,  I  ought  to 
have  been  able  to  make  a  drawing  of  Chamouni,  or  the  vale 
of  Cluse,  which  should  give  people  more  pleasure  than  a 
photograph  ;  but  I  always  wanted  to  do  it  as  I  saw  it,  and 
engrave  pine  for  pine,  and  crag  for  crag,  like  Albert  Diirer. 
I  broke  my  strength  down  for  many  a  year,  always  tiring  of 
my  work,  or  finding  the  leaves  drop  off,  or  the  snow  come 
on,  before  I  had  well  begun  what  I  meant  to  do.  If  I  had  only 
counted  my  pines  first,  and  calculated  the  number  of  hours 
necessary  to  do  them  in  the  manner  of  Diirer,  I  should  have 
saved  the  available  drawing  time  of  some  five  years,  spent  in 
vain  effort. 

But  Turner  counted  his  pines,  and  did  all  that  could  be 
done  for  them,  and  rested  content  with  that. 


THE  STRAIT  GATE. 


91 


So  in  all  the  affairs  of  life,  the  arithmetical  part  of  the  busi- 
ness is  the  dominant  one.  How  many  and  how  much  have 
we  ?  How  many  and  how  much  do  we  want  ?  How  constantly 
does  noble  Arithmetic  of  the  finite  lose  itself  in  base  Avarice 
of  the  Infinite,  and  in  blind  imagination  of  it !  In  counting 
of  minutes,  is  our  arithmetic  ever  solicitous  enough  ?  In 
counting  our  days,  is  she  ever  severe  enough?  How  we 
shrink  from  putting,  in  their  decades,  the  diminished  store  of 
them  !  And  if  we  ever  pray  the  solemn  prayer  that  we  may 
be  taught  to  number  them,  do  we  even  try  to  do  it  after 
praying? 

Technical  Points. — The  Pythagoras  almost  entirely  genuine. 
The  upper  figures,  from  this  inclusive  to  the  outer  wall,  I 
have  not  been  able  to  examine  thoroughly,  my  scaffolding  not 
extending  beyond  the  Geometry. 

Here  then  we  have  the  sum  of  sciences, — seven,  according 
to  the  Florentine  mind — necessary  to  the  secular  education 
of  man  and  woman.  Of  these  the  modern  average  respect- 
able English  gentleman  and  gentlewoman  know  usually  only 
a  little  of  the  last,  and  entirely  hate  the  prudent  applications 
of  that :  being  unacquainted,  except  as  they  chance  here  and 
there  to  pick  up  a  broken  piece  of  information,  with  either 
grammar,  rhetoric,  music,1  astronomy,  or  geometry  ;  and  are 
not  only  unacquainted  with  logic,  or  the  use  of  reason,  them- 
selves, but  instinctively  antagonistic  to  its  use  by  anybody  else. 

We  are  now  to  read  the  series  of  the  Divine  sciences,  begin- 
ning at  the  opposite  side,  next  the  window. 

VIII.  Civil  Law.  Civil,  or  'of  citizens,'  not  only  as  dis- 
tinguished from  Ecclesiastical,  but  from  Local  law.  She  is 
the  universal  Justice  of  the  peaceful  relations  of  men  through- 
out the  world,  therefore  holds  the  globe,  with  its  three  quar- 
ters, white,  as  being  justly  governed,  in  her  left  hand. 

She  is  also  the  law  of  eternal  equity,  not  erring  statute  ; 
therefore  holds  her  sword  level  across  her  breast. 

1  Being  able  to  play  the  piano  and  admire  Mendelssohn  is  not  know- 
ing nmsic. 


92 


MORN mO S  IN  FLORENCE. 


She  is  the  foundation  of  all  other  divine  science.  To  kno^ 
anything  whatever  about  God,  you  must  begin  by  being  Just. 

Dressed  in  red,  which  in  these  frescoes  is  always  a  sign  of 
power,  or  zeal ;  but  her  face  very  calm,  gentle  and  beautiful. 
Her  hair  bound  close,  and  crowned  by  the  royal  circlet  of 
gold,  with  pure  thirteenth  century  strawberry  leaf  ornament. 

Under  her,  the  Emperor  Justinian,  in  blue,  with  conical 
mitre  of  white  and  gold  ;  the  face  in  profile,  very  beautiful. 
The  imperial  staff  in  his  right  hand,  the  Institutes  in  his  left. 

Medallion,  a  figure,  apparently  in  distress,  appealing  for 
justice.    (Trajan's  suppliant  widow  ?) 

Technical  Points. — The  three  divisions  of  the  globe  in  her 
hand  were  originally  inscribed  Asia,  Africa,  Europe.  The  re- 
storer has  ingeniously  changed  Af  into  Ame — rica.  Paces, 
both  of  the  science  and  emperor,  little  retouched,  nor  any  of 
the  rest  altered. 

IX.  Christian  Lav/.  After  the  justice  which  rules  men, 
comes  that  which  rules  the  Church  of  Christ.  The  distinction 
is  not  between  secular  law,  and  ecclesiastical  authority,  but 
between  the  equity  of  humanity,  and  the  law  of  Christian  dis- 
cipline. 

In  full,  straight-falling,  golden  robe,  with  white  mantle  over 
it  ;  a  church  in  her  left  hand  ;  her  right  raised,  with  the  fore- 
finger lifted  ;  (indicating  heavenly  source  of  all  Christian  law? 
or  warning  ?) 

Head-dress,  a  white  veil  floating  into  folds  in  the  air.  You 
will  find  nothing  in  these  frescoes  without  significance  ;  and 
as  the  escaping  hair  of  Geometry  indicates  the  infinite  condi- 
tions of  lines  of  the  higher  orders,  so  the  floating  veil  here 
indicates  that  the  higher  relations  of  Christian  justice  are  in- 
definable. So  her  golden  mantle  indicates  that  it  is  a  glorious 
and  excellent  justice  beyond  that  which  unchristian  men  con- 
ceive ;  while  the  severely  falling  lines  of  the  folds,  which  form 
a  kind  of  gabled  niche  for  the  head  of  the  Pope  beneath,  cor- 
respond with  the  strictness  of  true  Church  discipline  firmer 
as  well  as  more  luminous  statute. 


THE  STRAIT  GATE. 


93 


Beneath,  Pope  Clement  V.,  in  red,  lifting  his  hand,  not  in 
the  position  of  benediction,  but,  I  suppose,  of  injunction, — 
only  the  forefinger  straight,  the  second  a  little  bent,  the  two 
last  quite.  Note  the  strict  level  of  the  book  ;  and  the  vertical 
directness  of  the  key. 

The  medallion  puzzles  me.  It  looks  like  a  figure  counting 
money. 

Technical  Points. — Fairly  well  preserved  ;  but  the  face  of 
the  science  retouched  :  the  grotesquely  false  perspective  of 
the  Pope's  tiara,  one  of  the  most  curiously  naive  examples 
of  the  entirely  ignorant  feeling  after  merely  scientific  truth  of 
form  which  still  characterized  Italian  art. 

Type  of  church  interesting  in  its  extreme  simplicity  ;  no 
idea  of  transept,  campanile,  or  dome. 

X.  Practical  Theology.  The  beginning  of  the  knowledge 
of  God  being  Human  Justice,  and  its  elements  defined  by 
Christian  Law,  the  application  of  the  law  so  defined  follows, 
first  with  respect  to  man,  then  with  respect  to  God. 

"  Render  unto  Caesar  the  things  that  are  Caesar's — and  to 
God  the  things  that  are  God's." 

We  have  therefore  now  two  sciences,  one  of  our  duty  to 
men,  the  other  to  their  Maker. 

This  is  the  first :  duty  to  men.  She  holds  a  circular  me- 
dallion, representing  Christ  preaching  on  the  Mount,  and 
points  with  her  right  hand  to  the  earth. 

The  sermon  on  the  Mount  is  perfectly  expressed  by  the 
craggy  pinnacle  in  front  of  Christ,  and  the  high  dark  horizon. 
There  is  curious  evidence  throughout  all  these  frescos  of 
Simon  Memmi's  having  read  the  Gospels  with  a  quite  clear 
understanding  of  their  innermost  meaning. 

I  have  called  this  science  Practical  Theology  : — the  instruc- 
tive knowledge,  that  is  to  say,  of  what  God  would  have  us 
do,  personally,  in  any  given  human  relation  :  and  the  speak- 
ing His  Gospel  therefore  by  act.  "Let  your  light  so  shine 
before  men." 

She  wears  a  green  dress,  like  Music  her  hair  in  the  Arabian 
arch,  with  jewelled  diadem. 


94 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


Under  David. 
Medallion,  Almsgiving. 
Beneath  her,  Peter  Lombard. 

Technical  Points. — It  is  curious  that  while  the  instinct  of 
perspective  was  not  strong  enough  to  enable  any  painter  at 
this  time  to  foreshorten  a  foot,  it  yet  suggested  to  them  tli8 
expression  of  elevation  by  raising  the  horizon. 

I  have  not  examined  the  retouching.  The  hair  and  diadem 
at  least  are  genuine,  the  face  is  dignified  and  compassionate, 
and  much  on  the  old  lines. 

XL  Devotional  Theology. — Giving  glory  to  God,  or,  more 
accurately,  whatever  feelings  He  desires  us  to  have  towards 
Him,  whether  of  affection  or  awe. 

This  is  the  science  or  method  of  devotion  for  Christians  uni- 
versally, just  as  the  Practical  Theology  is  their  science  or 
method  of  action. 

In  blue  and  red  :  a  narrow  black  rod  still  traceable  in  the 
left  hand  ;  I  am  not  sure  of  its  meaning.  ("  Thy  rod  and  Thy 
staff,  they  comfort  me  ?  ")  The  other  hand  open  in  admira- 
tion, like  Astronomy's  ;  but  Devotion's  is  held  at  her  breast. 
Her  head  very  characteristic  of  Memmi,  with  upturned  eyes, 
and  Arab  arch  in  hair.  Under  her,  Dionysius  the  Areopagite 
—mending  his  pen  !  But  I  am  doubtful  of  Lord  Lindsay's 
identification  of  this  figure,  and  the  action  is  curiously  com- 
mon and  meaningless.  It  may  have  meant  that  meditative 
theology  is  essentially  a  writer,  not  a  preacher. 

The  medallion,  on  the  other  hand,  is  as  ingenious.  A 
mother  lifting  her  hands  in  delight  at  her  child's  beginning  to 
take  notice. 

Under  St.  Paul. 

Technical  Points. — Both  figures  very  genuine,  the  lower  one 
almost  entirely  so.  The  painting  of  the  red  book  is  quite  ex» 
emplary  in  fresco  style. 

XIL  Dogmatic  Theology. — After  action  and  worship: 
thought  becoming  too  wide  and  difficult,  the  need  of  dogma 


THE  STRAIT  GATE. 


95 


becomes  felt ;  the  assertion,  that  is,  within  limited  range,  of 
the  things  that  are  to  be  believed. 

Since  whatever  pride  and  folly  pollute  Christian  scholarship 
naturally  delight  in  dogma,  the  science  itself  cannot  but  be  in 
a  kind  of  disgrace  among  sensible  men :  nevertheless  it  would 
be  difficult  to  overvalue  the  peace  and  security  which  have 
been  given  to  humble  persons  by  forms  of  creed ;  and  it  is 
evident  that  either  there  is  no  such  thing  as  theology,  or 
some  of  its  knowledge  must  be  thus,  if  not  expressible,  at 
least  reducible  within  certain  limits  of  expression,  so  as  to  be 
protected  from  misinterpretation. 

In  red, — again  the  sign  of  power, — crowned  with  a  black 
(once  golden  ?)  triple  crown,  emblematic  of  the  Trinity.  The 
left  hand  holding  a  scoop  for  winnowing  corn  ;  the  other 
points  upwards.  "  Prove  all  things — hold  fast  that  which  is 
good,  or  of  God." 

Beneath  her,  Boethius. 

Under  St.  Mark. 

Medallion,  female  figure,  laying  hands  on  breast. 

Technical  Points. — The  Boethius  entirely  genuine,  and  the 
painting  of  his  black  bock,  as  of  the  red  one  beside  it,  again 
worth  notice,  showing  how  pleasant  and  interesting  the  com- 
monest things  become,  when  well  painted. 

I  have  not  examined  the  upper  figure. 

XIII.  Mystic  Theology.1  Monastic  science,  above  dogma? 
and  attaining  to  new  revelation  by  reaching  higher  spiritual 
states. 

In  white  robes,  her  left  hand  gloved  (I  don't  know  why) — 
holding  chalice.  She  wears  a  nun's  veil  fastened  under  her 
chin,  her  hair  fastened  close,  like  Grammar's,  showing  her 
necessary  monastic  life  ;  all  states  of  mystic  spiritual  life  in- 
volving retreat  from  much  that  is  allowable  in  the  material 
and  practical  world. 

There  is  no  possibility  of  denying  this  fact,  infinite  as  the 
evils  are  which  have  arisen  from  misuse  of  it.    The}'  have 

1  Blunderingly  in  the  guide-books  called  '  Faith ! ' 


96 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


been  chiefly  induced  by  persons  who  falsely  pretended  to  lead 
monastic  life,  and  led  it  without  having  natural  faculty  for  it 
But  many  more  lamentable  errors  have  arisen  from  the  pride 
of  really  noble  persons,  who  have  thought  it  would  be  a  more 
pleasing  thing  to  God  to  be  a  sibyl  or  a  witch,  than  a  useful 
housewife.  Pride  is  always  somewhat  involved  even  in  the 
true  effort  :  the  scarlet  head-dress  in  the  form  of  a  horn  on 
the  forehead  in  the  fresco  indicates  this,  both  here,  and  in  the 
Contemplative  Theology. 
Under  St.  John. 

Medallion  unintelligible,  to  me.  A  woman  laying  hands  on 
the  shoulders  of  two  small  figures. 

Technical  Points. — More  of  the  minute  folds  of  the  white 
dress  left  than  in  any  other  of  the  repainted  draperies.  It  is 
curious  that  minute  division  has  always  in  drapery,  more  or 
less,  been  understood  as  an  expression  of  spiritual  life,  from 
the  delicate  folds  of  Athena's  peplus  down  to  the  rippled 
edges  of  modern  priests'  white  robes  ;  Titian's  breadth  of  fold, 
on  the  other  hand,  meaning  for  the  most  part  bodily  power. 
The  relation  of  the  two  modes  of  composition  was  lost  by 
Michael  Angelo,  who  thought  to  express  spirit  by  making 
flesh  colossal. 

For  the  rest,  the  figure  is  not  of  any  interest,  Memmi's  own 
mind  being  intellectual  rather  than  mystic. 

XIV.  Polemic  Theology.1 

<£  Who  goes  forth,  conquering  and  to  conquer  ?  " 

"  For  we  war,  not  with  flesh  and  blood,"  etc. 

In  red,  as  sign  of  power,  but  not  in  armour,  because  she  is 
herself  invulnerable.  A  close  red  cap,  with  cross  for  crest, 
instead  of  helmet.    Bow  in  left  hand  ;  long  arrow  in  right. 

She  partly  means  Aggressive  Logic :  compare  the  set  of  her 
shoulders  and  arms  with  Logic's. 

She  is  placed  the  last  of  the  Divine  sciences,  not  as  their 
culminating  power,  but  as  the  last  which  can  be  rightly 
learnecL    You  must  know  all  the  others,  before  you  go  out  to 

1  Blunderingly  called  i  Charity  '  in  the  guide-books. 


THE  STRAIT  GATE.  ,  97 


battle.  Whereas  the  general  principle  of  modern  Christendom 
is  to  go  out  to  battle  without  knowing  any  one  of  the  others  ; 
one  of  the  reasons  for  this  error,  the  prince  of  errors,  being 
the  vulgar  notion  that  truth  may  be  ascertained  by  debate ! 
Truth  is  never  learned,  in  any  department  of  industry,  by 
arguing,  but  by  working,  and  observing.  And  when  you 
have  got  good  hold  of  one  truth,  for  certain,  two  others  will 
grow  out  of  it,  in  a  beautifully  dicotyledonous  fashion,  (which, 
as  before  noticed,  is  the  meaning  of  the  branch  in  Logic's 
right  hand).  Then,  when  you  have  got  so  much  true  knowl- 
edge as  is  worth  fighting  for,  you  are  bound  to  fight  for  it. 
But  not  to  debate  about  it,  any  more. 

There  is,  however,  one  further  reason  for  Polemic  Theology 
being  put  beside  Mystic.  It  is  only  in  some  approach  to 
mystic  science  that  any  man  becomes  aware  of  what  St.  Paul 
means  by  "  spiritual  wickedness  in  heavenly  1  places  ; "  or,  in 
any  true  sense,  knows  the  enemies  of  God  and  of  man. 

Beneath  St.  Augustine.  Showing  you  the  proper  method 
of  controvers}^ ; — perfectly  firm  ;  perfectly  gentle. 

You  are  to  distinguish,  of  course,  controversy  from  rebuke. 
The  assertion  of  truth  is  to  be  always  gentle  :  the  chastise- 
ment of  wilful  falsehood  may  be  -—very  much  the  contrary  in- 
deed. Christ's  sermon  on  the  Mount  is  full  of  polemic  theol- 
ogy, yet  perfectly  gentle  : — i(  Ye  have  heard  that  it  hath  been 
said — but  /say  unto  you"; — "And  if  ye  salute  your  breth- 
ren only,  what  do  ye  more  than  others  ?  "  and  the  like.  But 
His  "  Ye  fools  and  blind,  for  whether  is  greater,"  is  not  merely 
the  exposure  of  error,  but  rebuke  of  the  avarice  which  made 
that  error  possible. 

Under  the  throne  of  St.  Thomas  ;  and  next  to  Arithmetic,  of 
the  terrestrial  sciences. 

Medallion,  a  soldier,  but  not  interesting. 

Technical  Points. — Very  genuine  and  beautiful  throughout. 
Note  the  use  of  St.  Augustine's  red  bands,  to  connect  him  with 
the  full  red  of  the  upper  figures  ;  and  compare  the  niche 

1  With  cowardly  intentional  fallacy,  translated  'high'  in  the  English 
Bible. 


98 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


formed  by  the  dress  of  Canon  Law,  above  the  Pope,  for  dit 
ferent  artistic  methods  of  attaining  the  same  object, — unity  ot 
composition. 

But  lunch  time  is  near,  my  friends,  and  you  have  that  shop- 
ping to  do,  you  know. 


THE  SIXTH  MORNING. 

TEE  SHEPHERD'S  TOWER. 

I  am  obliged  to  interrupt  my  account  of  the  Spanish  chapel 
by  the  following  notes  on  the  sculptures  of  Giotto's  Campa- 
nile :  first  because  I  find  that  inaccurate  accounts  of  those 
sculptures  are  in  course  of  publication  ;  and  chiefly  because  I 
cannot  finish  my  work  in  the  Spanish  chapel  until  one  of  my 
good  Oxford  helpers,  Mr.  Caird,  has  completed  some  investi- 
gations he  has  undertaken  for  me  upon  the  history  connected 
with  it.  I  had  written  my  own  analysis  of  the  fourth  side, 
believing  that  in  every  scene  of  it  the  figure  of  St.  Dominic 
was  repeated.  Mr.  Caird  first  suggested,  and  has  shown  me 
already  good  grounds  for  his  belief,1  that  the  preaching 
monks  represented  are  in  each  scene  intended  for  a  different 
person.  I  am  informed  also  of  several  careless  mistakes  which 
have  got  into  my  description  of  the  fresco  of  the  Sciences  ; 
and  finally,  another  of  my  young  helpers,  Mr.  Charles  P. 
Murray, — one,  however,  whose  help  is  given  much  in  the  form 
of  antagonism, — informs  me  of  various  critical  discoveries 
lately  made,  both  by  himself,  and  by  industrious  Germans,  of 
points  respecting  the  authenticity  of  this  and  that,  which  will 
require  notice  from  me :  more  especially  he  tells  me  of  certifi* 
cation  that  the  picture  in  the  Uffizii,  of  which  I  accepted  the 
ordinary  attribution  to  Giotto,  is  by  Lorenzo  Monaco, — which 
indeed  may  well  be,  without  in  the  least  diminishing  the  use 

1  He  wrote  thus  to  me  on  11th  November  last:  "  The  three  preach- 
ers are  certainly  different.  The  first  is  Dominic  ;  the  second,  Peter 
Martyr,  whom  I  have  identified  from  his  martyrdom  on  the  other  wall  \ 
and  the  third,  Aquinas." 


THE  SHEPHEMirS  TO  WEE. 


99 


to  you  of  what  I  have  written  of  its  predella,  and  without  in 
the  least,  if  you  think  rightly  of  the  matter,  diminishing  your 
confidence  in  what  I  tell  you  of  Giotto  generally.  There  is 
one  kind  of  knowledge  of  pictures  which  is  the  artist's,  and 
another  which  is  the  antiquary's  and  the  picture-dealer's  ;  the 
latter  especially  acute,  and  founded  on  very  secure  and  wide 
knowledge  of  canvas,  pigment,  and  tricks  of  touch,  without^ 
necessarily,  involving  any  knowledge  whatever  of  the  qualities 
of  art  itself.  There  are  few  practised  dealers  in  the  great 
cities  of  Europe  whose  opinion  would  not  be  more  trustworthy 
than  mine,  (if  you  could  get  it,  mind  you,)  on  points  of  actual 
authenticity.  But  they  could  only  tell  you  whether  the  pict- 
ure was  by  such  and  such  a  master,  and  not  at  all  what  either 
the  master  or  his  wrork  were  good  for.  Thus,  I  have,  before 
now,  taken  drawings  by  Varley  and  by  Cousins  for  early 
studies  by  Turner,  and  have  been  convinced  by  the  dealers 
that  they  knew  better  than  I,  as  far  as  regarded  the  authen- 
ticity of  those  drawings  ;  but  the  dealers  don't  know  Turner, 
or  the  worth  of  him,  so  wTell  as  I,  for  all  that.  So  also,  you 
may  find  me  again  and  again  mistaken  among  the  much  more 
confused  work  of  the  early  Giottesque  schools,  as  to  the  au- 
thenticity of  this  work  or  the  other  ;  but  you  will  find  (and  I 
say  it  with  far  more  sorrow  than  pride)  that  I  am  simply  the 
only  person  who  can  at  present  tell  you  the  real  worth  of  any; 
you  will  find  that  whenever  I  tell  you  to  look  at  a  picture,  it 
is  worth  your  pains  ;  and  whenever  I  tell  you  the  character  of 
a  painter,  that  it  is  his  character,  discerned  by  me  faithfully 
in  spite  of  all  confusion  of  work  falsely  attributed  to  him  in 
which  similar  character  may  exist.  Thus,  when  I  mistook 
Cousins  for  Turner,  I  was  looking  at  a  piece  of  subtlety  in  the 
sky  of  which  the  dealer  had  no  consciousness  whatever,  which 
was  essentially  Turneresque,  but  which  another  man  might 
sometimes  equal ;  whereas  the  dealer  might  be  only  looking 
at  the  quality  of  Whatman's  paper,  which  Cousins  used,  and 
Turner  did  not. 

Not,  in  the  meanwhile,  to  leave  you  quite  guideless  as  to 
the  main  subject  of  the  fourth  fresco  in  the  Spanish  chapel, — • 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress  of  Florence, — here  is  a  brief  map  of  it 


100 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


On  the  right,  in  lowest  angle,  St.  Dominic  preaches  to  the 
group  of  Infidels  ;  in  the  next  group  towards  the  left,  he  (or 
some  one  very  like  him)  preaches  to  the  Heretics :  the  Heretics 
proving  obstinate,  he  sets  his  dogs  at  them,  as  at  the  fatallest 
of  wolves,  who  being  driven  away,  the  rescued  lambs  are 
gathered  at  the  feet  of  the  Pope.  I  have  copied  the  head  of 
the  very  pious,  but  slightly  weak-minded,  little  lamb  in  the 
centre,  to  compare  with  my  rough  Cumberland  ones,  who  have 
had  no  such  grave  experiences.  The  whole  group,  with  the 
Pope  above,  (the  niche  of  the  Duomo  joining  with  and  en- 
riching the  decorative  power  of  his  mitre,)  is  a  quite  delicious 
piece  of  design. 

The  Church  being  thus  pacified,  is  seen  in  worldly  honour 
under  the  powers  of  the  Spiritual  and  Temporal  Eulers.  The 
Pope,  with  Cardinal  and  Bishop  descending  in  order  on  his 
right ;  the  Emperor,  with  King  and  Baron  descending  in 
order  on  his  left ;  the  ecclesiastical  body  of  the  whole  Church 
on  the  right  side,  and  the  laity, — chiefly  its  poets  and  artists, 
on  the  left. 

Then,  the  redeemed  Church  nevertheless  giving  itself  up  to 
the  vanities  and  temptations  of  the  world,  its  forgetful  saints 
are  seen  feasting,  with  their  children  dancing  before  them, 
(the  Seven  Mortal  Sins,  say  some  commentators).  But  the 
wise-hearted  of  them  confess  their  sins  to  another  ghost  of 
St.  Dominic  ;  and  confessed,  becoming  as  little  children, 
enter  hand  in  hand  the  gate  of  the  Eternal  Paradise,  crowned 
with  flowers  by  the  waiting  angels,  and  admitted  by  St.  Peter 
among  the  serenely  joyful  crowd  of  all  the  saints,  above  whom 
the  white  Madonna  stands  reverently  before  the  throne. 
There  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  throughout  ail  the  schools  of  Chris- 
tian art,  no  other  so  perfect  statement  of  the  noble  policy  and 
religion  of  men. 

I  had  intended  to  give  the  best  account  of  it  in  my  power ; 
but,  when  at  Florence,  lost  all  time  for  writing  that  I  might 
copy  the  group  of  the  Pope  and  Emperor  for  the  schools  of 
Oxford  ;  and  the  work  since  clone  by  Mr.  Caird  has  informed 
me  of  so  much,  and  given  me,  in  some  of  its  suggestions,  so 
much  to  think  of,  that  I  believe  it  will  be  best  and  most 


THE  SHEPHERDS  TOWER. 


101 


just  to  print  at  once  his  account  of  the  fresco  as  a  supplement 
to  these  essays  of  mine,  merely  indicating  any  points  on 
which  I  have  objections  to  raise,  and  so  leave  matters  till 
Fors  lets  me  see  Florence  once  more. 

Perhaps  she  may,  in  kindness  forbid  my  ever  seeing  it 
more,  the  wreck  of  it  being  now  too  ghastly  and  heart- 
breaking to  any  human  soul  that  remembers  the  days 
of  old.  Forty  years  ago,  there  was  assuredly  no  spot  of 
ground,  out  of  Palestine,  in  all  the  round  world,  on  which,  if 
you  knew,  even  but  a  little,  the  true  course  of  that  world's 
history,  you  saw  with  so  much  joyful  reverence  the  dawn  of 
morning,  as  at  the  foot  of  the  Tower  of  Giotto.  For  there 
the  traditions  of  faith  and  hope,  of  both  the  Gentile  and  Jew- 
ish races,  met  for  their  beautiful  labour :  the  Baptistery  of 
Florence  is  the  last  building  raised  on  the  earth  by  the  de- 
scendants of  the  workmen  taught  by  Daedalus  :  and  the  Tower 
of  Giotto  is  the  loveliest  of  those  raised  on  earth  under  the 
inspiration  of  the  men  who  lifted  up  the  tabernacle  in  the 
wilderness.  Of  living  Greek  work  there  is  none  after  the 
Florentine  Baptistery  ;  of  living  Christian  work,  none  so  per- 
fect as  the  Tower  of  Giotto  ;  and,  under  the  gleam  and  shadow 
of  their  marbles,  the  morning  light  was  haunted  by  the 
ghosts  of  the  Father  of  Natural  Science,  Galileo  ;  of  Sacred 
Art,  Angelico,  and  the  Master  of  Sacred  Song.  Which  spot 
of  ground  the  modern  Florentine  has  made  his  principal 
hackney-coach  stand  and  omnibus  station.  The  hackney 
coaches,  with  their  more  or  less  farmyard-like  litter  of  occa- 
sional hay,  and  smell  of  variously  mixed  horse-manure,  are 
yet  in  more  permissible  harmony  with  the  place  than  the 
ordinary  populace  of  a  fashionable  promenade  would  be,  with 
its  cigars,  spitting,  and  harlot-planned  fineries :  but  the  om- 
nibus place  of  call  being  in  front  of  the  door  of  the  tower, 
renders  it  impossible  to  stand  for  a  moment  near  it,  to  look 
at  the  sculptures  either  of  the  eastern  or  southern  side  ; 
while  the  north  side  is  enclosed  with  an  iron  railing,  and 
usually  encumbered  with  lumber  as  well :  not  a  soul  in  Flor- 
ence ever  caring  now  for  sight  of  any  piece  of  its  old  artists 
work. ;  and  the  mass  of  strangers  being  on  the  whole  intent 


102 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


on  nothing  but  getting  the  omnibus  to  go  by  steam  ;  and  so 
seeing  the  cathedral  in  one  swift  circuit,  by  glimpses  between 
the  puffs  of  it. 

The  front  of  Notre  Dame  of  Paris  was  similarly  turned  into 
a  coach-office  when  I  last  saw  it — 1872.'  Within  fifty 
yards  of  me  as  I  write,  the  Oratory  of  the  Holy  Ghost  is  used 
for  a  tobacco-store,  and  in  fine,  over  all  Europe,  mere  Cali- 
ban bestiality  and  Satyric  ravage  staggering,  drunk  and  des- 
perate, into  every  once  enchanted  cell  where  the  prosperity  of 
kingdoms  ruled  and  the  miraculousness  of  beauty  was  shrined 
in  peace. 

Deluge  of  profanity,  drowning  dome  and  tower  in  Stygian 
pool  of  vilest  thought, — nothing  now  left  sacred,  in  the  places 
where  once — nothing  was  profane. 

For  that  is  indeed  the  teaching,  if  you  could  receive  it,  of 
the  Tower  of  Giotto  ;  as  of  all  Christian  art  in  its  day.  Next 
to  declaration  of  the  facts  of  the  Gospel,  its  purpose,  (often  in 
actual  work  the  eagerest,)  was  to  show  the  power  of  the  Gos- 
pel. History  of  Christ  in  due  place  ;  yes,  history  of  all  He 
did,  and  how  He  died :  but  then,  and  often,  as  I  say,  with 
more  animated  imagination,  the  showing  of  His  risen  presence 
in  granting  the  harvests  and  guiding  the  labour  of  the  year. 
All  sun  and  rain,  and  length  or  decline  of  days  received  from 
His  hand  ;  all  joy,  and  grief,  and  strength,  or  cessation  of  la- 
bour, indulged  or  endured,  as  in  His  sight  and  to  His  glory. 
And  the  familiar  employments  of  the  seasons,  the  homely 
toils  of  the  peasant,  the  lowliest  skills  of  the  craftsman,  are 
signed  always  on  the  stones  of  the  Church,  as  the  first  and 
truest  condition  of  sacrifice  and  offering. 

Of  these  representations  of  human  art  under  heavenly  guid< 
ance,  the  series  of  bas-reliefs  which  stud  the  base  of  this  tower 
of  Giotto's  must  be  held  certainly  the  chief  in  Europe.2  At 
first  you  may  be  surprised  at  the  smallness  of  their  scale  in 
proportion  to  their  masonry ;  but  this  smallness  of  scale  en- 

1  See  Fors  Clavigera  in  that  year. 

2  For  account  of  the  series  on  the  main  archivolt  of  St.  Mark's,  see 
my  sketch  of  the  schools  of  Venetian  sculpture  in  third  forthcoming 
number  of  'St.  Mark's  Rest.' 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  TOWER. 


103 


abled  the  master  workmen  of  the  tower  to  execute  them  with 
their  own  hands ;  and  for  the  rest,  in  the  very  finest  archi- 
tecture, the  decoration  of  most  precious  kind  is  usually 
thought  of  as  a  jewel,  and  set  with  space  round  it, — as  the 
jewels  of  a  crown,  or  the  clasp  of  a  girdle.  It  is  in  general 
not  possible  for  a  great  workman  to  carve,  himself,  a  greatly 
conspicuous  series  of  ornament ;  nay,  even  his  energy  fails 
him  in  design,  when  the  bas-relief  extends  itself  into  incrus- 
tation, or  involves  the  treatment  of  great  masses  of  stone.  If 
his  own  does  not,  the  spectator's  will.  It  would  be  the  work 
of  a  long  summer's  day  to  examine  the  over-loaded  sculptures 
of  the  Certosa  of  Pavia  ;  and  yet  in  the  tired  last  hour,  you 
would  be  empty-hearted.  Read  but  these  inlaid  jewels  of 
Giotto's  once  with  patient  following ;  and  your  hour  s  study 
will  give  you  strength  for  all  your  life.  So  far  as  you  can, 
examine  them  of  course  on  the  spot ;  but  to  know  them  thor- 
oughly you  must  have  their  photographs  :  the  subdued  colour 
of  the  old  marble  fortunately  keeps  the  lights  subdued,  so 
that  the  photograph  may  be  made  more  tender  in  the  shad- 
ows than  is  usual  in  its  renderings  of  sculpture,  and  there  are 
few  pieces  of  art  which  may  now  be  so  well  known  as  these, 
in  quiet  homes  far  away. 

We  begin  on  the  western  side.  There  are  seven  sculptures 
on  the  western,  southern,  and  northern  sides  :  six  on  the  east- 
em  ;  counting  the  Lamb  over  the  entrance  door  of  the  tower, 
which  divides  the  complete  series  into  two  groups  of  eighteen 
and  eight.  Itself,  between  them,  being  the  introduction  to 
the  following  eight,  you  must  count  it  as  the  first  of  the  ter- 
minal group  ;  you  then  have  the  w7hole  twenty-seven  sculpt- 
ures divided  into  eighteen  and  nine. 

Thus  lettering  the  groups  on  each  side  for  West,  South 
East,  and  North,  we  have  : 

W.      S.       E.  N. 
7  +    7  +  6   +   7  =  27 ;  or, 
W.       S.  EL 

7  4-7   +  4  =  18  ;  and, 

E.  N. 
2  +  7=9. 


104 


MOHJSlNQS  IN  FLORENCE. 


There  is  a  very  special  reason  for  this  division  by  nines , 
but,  for  convenience'  sake,  I  shall  number  the  whole  from  1 
to  27,  straightforwardly.  And  if  you  will  have  patience  with 
me,  I  should  like  to  go  round  the  tower  once  and  again ;  first 
observing  the  general  meaning  and  connection  of  the  subjects, 
and  then  going  back  to  examine  the  technical  points  in  each,, 
and  such  minor  specialties  as  it  may  be  well,  at  the  first  time, 
to  pass  over. 

1.  The  series  begins,  then,  on  the  west  side,  with  the  Crea- 
tion of  Man.  It  is  not  the  beginning  of  the  story  of  Genesis ; 
but  the  simple  assertion  that  God  made  us,  and  breathed,  and 
still  breathes,  into  our  nostrils  the  breath  of  life. 

This,  Giotto  tells  you  to  believe  as  the  beginning  of  all 
knowledge  and  all  power.1  This  he  tells  you  to  believe,  as  a 
thing  which  he  himself  knows. 

He  will  tell  you  nothing  but  what  he  does  know. 

2.  Therefore,  though  Giovanna  Pisano  and  his  fellow  sculpt- 
ors had  given,  literally,  the  taking  of  the  rib  out  of  Adam's 
side,  Giotto  merely  gives  the  mythic  expression  of  the  truth 
he  knows, — "they  two  shall  be  one  flesh." 

3.  And  though  all  the  theologians  and  poets  of  his  time 
would  have  expected,  if  not  demanded,  that  his  next  assertion, 
after  that  of  the  Creation  of  Man,  should  be  of  the  Fall  of 
Man,  he  asserts  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  knows  nothing  of 
what  man  was.  What  he  is,  he  knows  best  of  living  men  at 
that  hour,  and  proceeds  to  say.  The  next  sculpture  is  of  Eve 
spinning  and  Adam  hewing  the  ground  into  clods.  Not  dig- 
ging :  you  cannot,  usually,  dig  but  in  ground  already  dug. 
The  native  earth  you  must  hew. 

They  are  not  clothed  in  skins.  What  would  have  been  the 
use  of  Eve  spinning  if  she  could  not  weave  ?  They  wear,  each, 
one  simple  piece  of  drapery,  Adam's  knotted  behind  him, 
Eve's  fastened  around  her  neck  with  a  rude  brooch. 

Above  them  are  an  oak  and  an  apple-tree.  Into  the  apple- 
tree  a  little  bear  is  trying  to  climb. 

The  meaning  of  which  entire  myth  is,  as  I  read  it,  that  men 

1  So  also  the  Master-builder  of  the  Ducal  Palace  of  Venice.  See  Fore 
Clavigera  for  June  of  this  year. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  TOWER. 


105 


and  women  must  both  eat  their  bread  with  toil.  That  the 
first  duty  of  man  is  to  feed  his  family,  and  the  first  duty  of 
the  woman  to  clothe  it.  That  the  trees  of  the  field  are  given 
us  for  strength  and  for  delight,  and  that  the  wild  beasts  of 
the  field  must  have  their  share  with  us. 1 

4.  The  fourth  sculpture,  forming  the  centre-piece  of  the 
series  on  the  west  side,  is  nomad  pastoral  life. 

Jabal,  the  father  of  such  as  dwell  in  tents,  and  of  such  as 
have  cattle,  lifts  the  curtain  of  his  tent  to  look  out  upon  his 
flock.    His  dog  watches  it. 

5.  Jubal,  the  father  of  all  such  as  handle  the  harp  and  or- 
gan. 

That  is  to  say,  stringed  and  wind  instruments ; — the  lyre 
and  reed.  The  first  arts  (with  the  Jew  and  Greek)  of  the 
shepherd  David,  and  shepherd  Apollo. 

Giotto  has  given  him  the  long  level  trumpet,  afterwards 
adopted  so  grandly  in  the  sculptures  of  La  Kobbia  and  Dona- 
tello.  It  is,  I  think,  intended  to  be  of  wood,  as  now  the  long 
Swiss  horn,  and  a  long  and  shorter  tube  are  bound  together. 

G.  Tubal  Cain,  the  instructor  of  every  artificer  in  brass  and 
iron. 

Giotto  represents  him  as  sitting,  fully  robed,  turning  a 
wedge  of  bronze  on  the  anvil  with  extreme  watchfulness. 

These  last  three  sculptures,  observe,  represent  the  life  of 
the  race  of  Cain  ;  of  those  who  are  wanderers,  and  have  no 
home.  Nomad  pastoral  life ;  Nomad  artistic  life,  Wandering 
Willie ;  yonder  organ  man,  whom  you  want  to  send  the  po- 
liceman after,  and  the  gipsy  who  is  mending  the  old  school- 
mistress's kettle  on  the  grass,  which  the  squire  has  wanted  so 
long  to  take  into  his  park  from  the  roadside. 

7.  Then  the  last  sculpture  of  the  seven  begins  the  story  of 
the  race  of  Seth,  and  of  home  life.  The  father  of  it  lying- 
drunk  under  his  trellised  vine  ;  such  the  general  image  of 
civilized  society,  in  the  abstract,  thinks  Giotto. 

1  The  oak  and  apple  boughs  are  placed,  with  the  same  meaning,  by 
Sandro  Botticelli,  in  the  lap  of  Zipporah.  The  figure  of  the  bear  is 
again  represented  by  Jacopo  della  Quercia,  on  the  north  door  of  the 
Cathedral  of  Florence.    I  am  not  sure  of  its  complete  meaning. 


106 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


With  several  other  meanings,  universally  known  to  the 
Catholic  world  of  that  day, — too  many  to  be  spoken  of  here. 

The  second  side  of  the  tower  represents,  after  this  intro- 
duction, the  sciences  and  arts  of  civilized  or  home  life. 

8.  Astronomy.  In  nomad  life  you  may  serve  yourself  of 
the  guidance  of  the  stars  ;  but  to  know  the  laws  of  their  no* 
madic  life,  your  own  must  be  fixed. 

The  astronomer,  with  his  sextant  revolving  on  a  fixed  pivot, 
looks  up  to  the  vault  of  the  heavens  and  beholds  their  zodiac  ; 
prescient  of  what  else  with  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  viewed, 
at  evening,  from  the  top  of  Fesole. 

Above  the  dome  of  heaven,  as  yet  unseen,  are  the  Lord  of 
the  worlds  and  His  angels.  To-day,  the  Dawn  and  the  Day- 
star  :  to-morrow,  the  Daystar  arising  in  the  heart. 

9.  Defensive  architecture.  The  building  of  the  watch- 
tower.    The  beginning  of  security  in  possession. 

10.  Pottery.  The  making  of  pot,  cup,  and  platter.  The 
first  civilized  furniture  ;  the  means  of  heating  liquid,  and 
serving  drink  and  meat  with  decency  and  economy. 

11.  Biding.    The  subduing  of  animals  to  domestic  service. 

12.  Weaving.  The  making  of  clothes  with  swiftness,  and 
in  precision  of  structure,  by  help  of  the  loom. 

13.  Law,  revealed  as  directly  from  heaven. 

14.  Diedalus  (not  Icarus,  but  the  father  trying  the  wings). 
The  conquest  of  the  element  of  air. 

As  the  seventh  subject  of  the  first  group  introduced  the 
arts  of  home  after  those  of  the  savage  wanderer,  this  seventh 
of  the  second  group  introduces  the  arts  of  the  missionary,  or 
civilized  and  gift-bringing  wanderer. 

15.  The  Conquest  of  the  Sea.  The  helmsman,  and  two 
rowers,  rowing  as  Venetians,  face  to  bow. 

16.  The  Conquest  of  the  Earth.  Hercules  victor  over 
Antaeus.  Beneficent  strength  of  civilization  crushing  the  sav- 
ageness  of  inhumanity. 

17.  Agriculture.    The  oxen  and  plough. 

18.  Trade.    The  cart  and  horses. 

19.  And  now  the  sculpture  over  the  door  of  the  tower. 
The  Lamb  of  God,  expresses  the  Law  of  Sacrifice,  and  door 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  TOWER. 


107 


of  ascent  to  heaven.  And  then  follow  the  fraternal  arts  of  the 
Christian  world. 

20.  Geometry.  Again  the  angle  sculpture,  introductory  to 
the  following  series.  We  shall  see  presently  why  this  science 
must  be  the  foundation  of  the  rest. 

21.  Sculpture. 

22.  Painting. 

23.  Grammar. 

24  Arithmetic.  The  laws  of  number,  weight,  and  meas* 
ures  of  capacity. 

25  Music.  The  laws  of  number,  weight  (or  force),  and 
measure,  applied  to  sound. 

26.  Logic.  The  laws  of  number  and  measure  applied  to 
thought. 

27.  The  Invention  of  Harmony. 

You  see  now — by  taking  first  the  great  division  of  pre- 
Christian  and  Christian  arts,  marked  by  the  door  of  the 
Tower  ;  and  then  the  divisions  into  four  successive  historical 
periods,  marked  by  its  angles — that  you  have  a  perfect  plan 
of  human  civilization.  The  first  side  is  of  the  nomad  life, 
learning  how  to  assert  its  supremacy  over  other  wandering 
creatures,  herbs,  and  beasts.  Then  the  second  side  is  the 
fixed  home  life,  developing  race  and  country  ;  then  the  third 
side,  the  human  intercourse  between  stranger  races  ;  then 
the  fourth  side,  the  harmonious  arts  of  all  who  are  gathered 
into  the  fold  of  Christ. 

Now  let  us  return  to  the  first  angle,  and  examine  piece  by 
piece  with  care. 

1.  Creation  of  Man. 

Scarcely  disengaged  from  the  clods  of  the  earth,  he  opens 
his  eyes  to  the  face  of  Christ.  Like  all  the  rest  of  the  sculpt- 
ures, it  is  less  the  representation  of  a  past  fact  than  of  a  con- 
stant one.  It  is  the  continual  state  of  man,  cof  the  earth/ 
yet  seeing  God. 

Christ  holds  the  book  of  His  Law — the  f  Law  of  life ' — in 
His  left  hand. 

The  trees  of  the  garden  above  are, — central  above  Christ, 


108 


M0RNIN08  IN  FLORENCE. 


palm  (immortal  life)  ;  above  Adam,  oak  (human  life).  Pear, 
and  fig,  and  a  large-leaved  ground  fruit  (what  ?)  complete  the 
myth  of  the  Food  of  Life. 

As  decorative  sculpture,  these  trees  are  especially  to  be 
noticed,  with  those  in  the  two  next  subjects,  and  the  Noah's 
vine  as  differing  in  treatment  from  Giotto's  foliage,  of  which 
perfect  examples  are  seen  in  16  and  17.  Giotto's  branches 
are  set  in  close  sheaf-like  clusters  ;  and  every  mass  disposed 
with  extreme  formality  of  radiation.  The  leaves  of  these  first, 
on  the  contrary,  are  arranged  with  careful  concealment  of 
their  ornamental  system,  so  as  to  look  inartificial.  This  is  done 
so  studiously  as  to  become,  by  excess,  a  little  unnatural ! — 
Nature  herself  is  more  decorative  and  formal  in  grouping. 
Bat  the  occult  design  is  very  noble,  and  every  leaf  modulated 
with  loving,  dignified,  exactly  right  and  sufficient  finish  ;  not 
done  to  show  skill,  nor  with  mean  forgetfulness  of  main  sub- 
ject, but  in  tender  completion  and  harmony  with  it- 
Look  at  the  subdivisions  of  the  palm  leaves  with  your  mag- 
nifying glass.  The  others  are  less  finished  in  this  than  in  the 
next  subject.  Man  himself  incomplete,  the  leaves  that  are 
created  with  him,  for  his  life,  must  not  be  so. 
(Are  not  his  fingers  yet  short ;  growing  ?) 

2.  Creation  of  Woman. 

Far,  in  its  essential  qualities,  the  transcendent  sculpture  of 
this  subject,  Ghiberti's  is  only  a  dainty  elaboration  and  beau- 
tification  of  it,  losing  its  solemnity  and  simplicity  in  a  flutter 
of  feminine  grace.  The  older  sculptor  thinks  of  the  Uses  of 
"Womanhood,  and  of  its  dangers  and  sins,  before  he  thinks  of 
its  beauty  ;  but,  were  the  arm  not  lost,  the  quiet  naturalness 
of  this  head  and  breast  of  Eve,  and  the  bending  grace  of  the 
submissive  rendering  of  soul  and  body  to  perpetual  guid- 
ance by  the  hand  of  Christ — [grasping  the  arm,  note,  for  full 
support) — would  be  felt  to  be  far  beyond  Ghiberti's  in 
beauty,  as  in  mythic  truth. 

The  line  of  her  body  joins  with  that  of  the  serpent-ivy  * 
round  the  tree  trunk  above  her  :  a  double  myth — of  her  fall, 
and  her  support  afterwards  by  her  husband's  strength.    "  Thj 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  TOWER 


109 


desire  shall  be  to  thy  husband. "  The  fruit  of  the  tree — double- 
set  filbert,  telliug  nevertheless  the  happy  equality. 

The  leaves  in  this  piece  are  finished  with  consummate 
poetical  care  and  precision.  Above  Adam,  laurel  (a  virtuous 
woman  is  a  crown  to  her  husband) ;  the  filbert  for  the  two  to- 
gether ;  the  fig,  for  fruitful  household  joy  (under  thy  vine  and 
fig-tree  1 — but  vine  properly  the  masculine  joy);  and  the  fruit 
taken  by  Christ  for  type  of  all  naturally  growing  food,  in  his 
own  hunger. 

Examine  with  lens  the  ribbing  of  these  leaves,  and  the  in- 
sertion on  their  stem  of  the  three  laurel  leaves  on  extreme 
right :  and  observe  that  in  all  cases  the  sculptor  works  the 
moulding  with  his  own  part  of  the  design  ;  look  how  he 
breaks  variously  deeper  into  it,  beginning  from  the  foot  of 
Christ,  and  going  up  to  the  left  into  full  depth  above  the 
shoulder. 

3.  Original  labour. 

Much  poorer,  and  intentionally  so.  For  the  myth  of  the 
creation  of  humanity,  the  sculptor  uses  his  best  strength,  and 
shows  supremely  the  grace  of  womanhood ;  but  in  representing 
the  first  peasant  state  of  life,  makes  the  grace  of  woman  by  no 
means  her  conspicuous  quality.  She  even  walks  awkwardly  ; 
some  feebleness  in  foreshortening  the  foot  also  embarrassing 
the  sculptor.  He  knows  its  form  perfectly — but  its  perspec- 
tive, not  quite  yet. 

The  trees  stiff  and  stunted — they  also  needing  culture. 
Their  fruit  dropping  at  present  only  into  beasts'  mouths. 

4.  Jabal. 

If  you  have  looked  long  enough,  and  carefully  enough,  at 
the  three  previous  sculptures,  you  cannot  but  feel  that  the 
hand  here  is  utterly  changed.  The  drapery  sweeps  in  broader, 
softer,  but  less  true  folds  ;  the  handling  is  far  more  delicate  ; 
exquisitely  sensitive  to  gradation  over  broad  surfaces — - 
scarcely  using  an  incision  of  any  depth  but  in  outline  ;  studi- 
ously reserved  in  appliance  of  shadow,  as  a  thing  precious  and 
local — look  at  it  above  the  puppy's  head,  and  under  the  tent 
1  Compare  Fors  Clavigera,  February,  1877. 


110 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


This  is  assuredly  painter's  work,  not  mere  sculptor's.  I 
have  no  doubt  whatever  it  is  by  the  own  hand  of  the  shep- 
herd-boy of  Fesole.  Cimabue  had  found  him  drawing,  (more 
probably  scratching  with  Etrurian  point,)  one  of  his  sheep 
upon  a  stone.  These,  on  the  central  foundation-stone  of  his 
tower  he  engraves,  looking  back  on  the  fields  of  life  :  the  time 
soon  near  for  him  to  draw  the  curtains  of  his  tent. 

I  know  no  dog  like  this  in  method  of  drawing,  and  in  skill 
of  giving  the  living  form  without  one  touch  of  chisel  for  hair, 
or  incision  for  eye,  except  the  dog  barking  at  Poverty  in  the 
great  fresco  of  Assisi. 

Take  the  lens  and  look  at  every  piece  of  the  work  from 
corner  to  corner — note  especially  as  a  thing  which  would  only 
have  been  enjoyed  by  a  painter,  and  which  all  great  painters 
do  intensely  enjoy — the  fringe  of  the  tent,1  and  precise  inser- 
tion of  its  point  in  the  angle  of  the  hexagon,  prepared  for  by 
the  archaic  masonry  indicated  in  the  oblique  joint  above ; 2 
architect  and  painter  thinking  at  once,  and  doing  as  they 
thought. 

I  gave  a  lecture  to  the  Eton  boys  a  year  or  two  ago,  on  little 
more  than  the  shepherd's  dog,  which  is  yet  more  wonderful 
in  magnified  scale  of  photograph.  The  lecture  is  partly  pub- 
lished— somewhere,  but  I  can't  refer  to  it. 

5.  Jubal. 

Still  Giotto's,  though  a  little  less  delighted  in  ;  but  with 
exquisite  introduction  of  the  Gothic  of  his  own  tower.  See 
the  light  surface  sculpture  of  a  mosaic  design  in  the  horizon- 
tal moulding. 

Note  also  the  painter's  freehand  working  of  the  complex 
mouldings  of  the  table — also  resolvedly  oblong,  not  square  ; 
see  central  flower. 

1  (l  I  think  Jabal's  tent  is  made  of  leather  ;  the  relaxed  intervals  be- 
tween the  tent-pegs  show  a  curved  ragged  edge  like  leather  near  the 
ground "  (Mr.  Caird).  The  edge  of  the  opening  is  still  more  character- 
istic, I  think. 

2  Prints  of  these  photographs  which  do  not  show  the  masonry  all 
round  the  hexagon  are  quite  valueless  for  study. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  TOWER. 


Ill 


6.  Tubal  Cain. 

Still  Giotto's,  and  entirely  exquisite  ;  finished  with  no  less 
care  than  the  shepherd,  to  mark  the  vitality  of  this  art  to  hu- 
manity ;  the  spade  and  hoe — its  heraldic  bearing — hung  on 
the  hinged  door.1  For  subtlety  of  execution,  note  the  texture 
of  wooden  block  under  anvil,  and  of  its  iron  hoop. 

The  workman's  face  is  the  best  sermon  on  the  dignity  of 
labour  yet  spoken  by  thoughtful  man.  Liberal  Parliaments 
and  fraternal  Reformers  have  nothing  essential  to  say  more0 

7.  Noah. 

Andrea  Pisano's  again,  more  or  less  imitative  of  Giotto's 
work. 

8.  Astronomy. 

We  have  a  new  hand  here  altogether.  The  hair  and  drapery 
bad  ;  the  face  expressive,  but  blunt  in  cutting  ;  the  small 
upper  heads,  necessarily  little  more  than  blocked  out,  on  the 
small  scale  ;  but  not  suggestive  of  grace  in  completion  :  the 
minor  detail  worked  with  great  mechanical  precision,  but  little 
feeling  ;  the  lion's  head,  with  leaves  in  its  ears,  is  quite  ugly  ; 
and  by  comparing  the  work  of  the  small  cusped  arch  at  the 
bottom  with  Giotto's  soft  handling  of  the  mouldings  of  his,  in 
5,  you  may  for  ever  know  common  mason's  work  from  fine 
Gothic.  The  zodiacal  signs  are  quite  hard  and  common  in 
the  method  of  bas-relief,  but  quaint  enough  in  design  :  Capri- 
corn, Aquarius,  and  Pisces,  on  the  broad  heavenly  belt ;  Taurus 
upside  down,  Gemini,  and  Cancer,  on  the  small  globe. 

I  think  the  whole  a  restoration  of  the  original  panel,  or  else 
an  inferior  workman's  rendering  of  Giotto's  design,  which  the 
next  piece  is,  with  less  question. 

9.  Building. 

The  larger  figure,  I  am  disposed  finally  to  think,  represents 

1  Pointed  out  to  me  by  Mr.  Caird,  who  adds  farther,  "  I  saw  a  forge 
identical  with  this  one  at  Pelago  the  other  day, — the  anvil  resting  on  a 
tree-stump:  the  same  fire,  bellows,  and  implements  ;  the  door  in  two 
parts,  the  upper  part  like  a  shutter,  and  used  for  the  exposition  of  fin- 
ished work  as  a  sign  of  the  craft ;  and  I  saw  upon  it  the  same  finished 
work  of  the  same  shape  as  in  the  bas-relief — a  spade  and  a  hoe , 


112 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


civic  power,  as  in  Lorenzetti's  fresco  at  Siena.  The  extreme 
rudeness  of  the  minor  figures  may  be  guarantee  of  their  origi- 
nality ;  it  is  the  smoothness  of  mass  and  hard  edge  work  that 
make  me  suspect  the  8th  for  a  restoration. 

10.  Pottery. 

Very  grand  ;  with  much  painter's  feeling,  and  fine  mould- 
ings again.  The  tiled  roof  projecting  in  the  shadow  above, 
protects  the  first  Ceramicus-home.  I  think  the  women  are 
meant  to  be  carrying  some  kind  of  wicker  or  reed-bound 
water-vessel.  The  Potter's  servant  explains  to  them  the  ex- 
treme advantages  of  the  new  invention.  I  can't  make  any 
conjecture  about  the  author  of  this  piece. 

11.  Riding. 

Again  Andrea  Pisano's,  it  seems  to  me.  Compare  the  toss- 
ing up  of  the  dress  behind  the  shoulders,  in  3  and  2.  The 
head  is  grand,  having  nearly  an  Athenian  profile  :  the  loss  of 
the  horse  s  fore-leg  prevents  me  from  rightly  judging  of  the 
entire  action.    I  must  leave  riders  to  say. 

12.  Weaving. 

Andrea's  again,  and  of  extreme  loveliness  ;  the  stooping  face 
of  the  woman  at  the  loom  is  more  like  a  Leonardo  drawing 
than  sculpture.  The  action  of  throwing  the  large  shuttle,  and 
all  the  structure  of  the  loom  and  its  threads,  distinguishing 
rude  or  smooth  surface,  are  quite  wonderful.  The  figure  on 
the  right  shows  the  use  and  grace  of  finely  woven  tissue,  under 
and  upper — that  over  the  bosom  so  delicate  that  the  line  of 
separation  from  the  flesh  of  the  neck  is  unseen. 

If  you  hide  with  your  hand  the  carved  masonry  at  the  bot- 
tom, the  composition  separates  itself  into  two  pieces,  one  dis- 
agreeably rectangular.  The  still  more  severely  rectangular 
masonry  throws  out  by  contrast  all  that  is  curved  and  rounded 
in  the  loom,  and  unites  the  whole  composition  ;  that  is  its 
aesthetic  function  ;  its  historical  one  is  to  show  that  weav* 
ing  is  queen's  work,  not  peasant's  ;  for  this  is  palace  ma- 
sonry. 


THE  SEE P HEED'S  TOWER. 


113 


13.  The  Giving  of  Law. 

More  strictly,  of  the  Book  of  God's  Law  :  the  only  one  which 
can  ultimately  be  obeyed.1 

The  authorship  of  this  is  very  embarrassing  to  me.  The 
face  of  the  central  figure  is  most  noble,  and  all  the  work  good, 
but  not  delicate  ;  it  is  like  original  work  of  the  master  whose 
design  No.  8  might  be  a  restoration. 

14.  Doedalus. 

Andrea  Pisano  again ;  the  head  superb,  founded  on  Greek 
models,  feathers  of  wings  wrought  with  extreme  care ;  but 
with  no  precision  of  arrangement  or  feeling.  How  far  in- 
tentional in  awkwardness,  I  cannot  say  ;  but  note  the  good 
mechanism  of  the  whole  plan,  with  strong  standing  board  for 
the  feet. 

15.  Navigation. 

An  intensely  puzzling  one  ;  coarse  (perhaps  unfinished)  in 
work,  and  done  by  a  man  who  could  not  row ;  the  plaited 
bands  used  for  rowlocks  being  pulled  the  wrong  way.  Eight, 
had  the  rowers  been  rowing  English- wise  :  but  the  water  at 
the  boat's  head  shows  its  motion  forwards,  the  way  the  oars- 
men look.  I  cannot  make  out  the  action  of  the  figure  at  the 
stern  ;  it  ought  to  be  steering  with  the  stern  oar. 

The  water  seems  quite  unfinished.    Meant,  I  suppose,  for 

1  Mr.  Caird  convinced  me  of  the  real  meaning  of  this  sculpture.  I 
had  taken  it  for  the  giving  of  a  book,  writing-  further  of  it  as  follows:  — 

All  books,  rightly  so  called,  are  Books  of  Law,  and  all  Scripture  ia 
given  by  inspiration  of  God.  (What  we  now  mostly  call  a  book,  the  in- 
finite reduplication  and  vibratory  echo  of  a  lie,  is  not  given  but  belched 
up  out  of  volcanic  clay  by  the  inspiration  of  the  devil. )  On  the  Book- 
giver's  right  hand  the  students  in  cell,  restrained  by  the  lifted  right  hand : 

"  Silent,  you, — till  you  know"  ;  then,  perhaps,  you  also. 

On  the  left,  the  men  of  the  world,  kneeling,  receive  the  gift. 

Eecommendable  seal,  this,  for  Mr.  Mudie  ! 

Mr.  Caird  says  :  "  The  book  is  written  law,  which  is  given  by  Justice 
to  the  inferiors,  that  they  may  know  the  laws  regulating  their  relations 
to  their  superiors — who  are  also  under  the  hand  of  law.  The  vassal  ia 
protected  by  the  accessibility- of  formularized  law.  The  superior  is  re- 
Strained  by  the  right  hand  of  power." 


114 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


surface  and  section  of  sea,  with  slimy  rock  at  the  bottom  ;  but 
all  stupid  and  inefficient. 

16.  Hercules  and  Antceus. 

The  Earth  power,  half  hidden  by  the  earth,  its  hair  and 
hand  becoming  roots,  the  strength  of  its  life  passing  through 
the  ground  into  the  oak  tree.  With  Cercyon,  but  first  named, 
(Plato,  Laws,  book  VII.,  796),  Anteus  is  the  master  of  contest 
without  use  ; — <£tAoi/€i/aas  d^p^orou — and  is  generally  the  power 
of  pure  selfishness  and  its  various  inflation  to  insolence  and 
degradation  to  cowardice  ; — finding  its  strength  only  in  fall 
back  to  its  Earth, — he  is  the  master,  in  a  word,  of  all  such 
kind  of  persons  as  have  been  writing  lately  about  the  "  in- 
terests of  England."  He  is,  therefore,  the  Power  invoked  by 
Dante  to  place  Virgil  and  him  in  the  lowTest  circle  of  Hell ; — 
"Alcides  whilom  felt, — that  grapple,  straitened  sore,"  etc. 
The  Antseus  in  the  sculpture  is  very  grand ;  but  the  author- 
ship puzzles  me,  as  of  the  next  piece,  by  the  same  hand.  I 
believe  both  Giotto's  design. 

17.  Ploughing. 

The  sword  in  its  Christian  form.  Magnificent :  the  grand- 
est expression  of  the  power  of  man  over  the  earth  and  its 
strongest  creatures  that  I  remember  in  early  sculpture, — (or 
for  that  matter,  in  late).  It  is  the  subduing  of  the  bull  which 
the  sculptor  thinks  most  of  ;  the  plough,  though  large,  is  of 
wood,  and  the  handle  slight.  But  the  pawing  and  bellowing 
labourer  he  has  bound  to  it ! — here  is  victory. 

18.  The  Chariot 

The  horse  also  subdued  to  draught — Achilles'  chariot  in  its 
first,  and  to  be  its  last,  simplicity.  The  face  has  probably 
been  grand — the  figure  is  so  still.  Andrea's,  I  think  by  the 
flying  drapery. 

19.  The  Lamb,  with  the  symbol  of  Resurrection. 

Over  the  door  :  '  I  am  the  door  ; — by  me,  if  any  man  enter 
in,'  etc.  Put  to  the  right  of  the  tower,  you  see,  fearlessly,  for 
the  convenience  of  staircase  ascent;  all  external  symmetry 
being  subject  with  the  great  builders  to  interior  use  ;  and 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  TOWER 


115 


then,  out  of  the  rightly  ordained  infraction  of  formal  law, 
comes  perfect  beauty  ;  and  when,  as  here,  the  Spirit  of  Heaven 
is  working*  with  the  designer,  his  thoughts  are  suggested  in 
truer  order,  by  the  concession  to  use.  After  this  sculpture 
comes  the  Christian  arts, — those  which  necessarily  imply  the 
conviction  of  immortality.  Astronomy  without  Christianity 
only  reaches  as  far  as — '  Thou  hast  made  him  a  little  lower 
than  the  angels — and  put  all  things  under  His  feet ' : — Chris- 
tianity says  beyond  this, — 'Know  ye  not  that  we  shall  judge 
angels  (as  also  the  lower  creatures  shall  judge  us !) ' 1  The 
series  of  sculptures  now  beginning,  show  the  arts  which  can 
only  be  accomplished  through  belief  in  Christ. 

20.  Geometry. 

Not  '  mathematics ' :  they  have  been  implied  long  ago  in  as- 
tronomy and  architecture  ;  but  the  due  Measuring  of  the  Earth 
and  all  that  is  on  it.  Actually  done  only  by  Christian  faith — 
first  inspiration  of  the  great  Earth-measurers.  Your  Prince 
Henry  of  Spain,  your  Columbus,  your  Captain  Cook,  (whose 
tomb,  with  the  bright  artistic  invention  and  religious  tender- 
ness which  are  so  peculiarly  the  gifts  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, we  have  just  provided  a  fence  for,  of  old  cannon  open- 
mouthed,  straight  up  towards  Heaven — your  modern  method 
of  symbolizing  the  only  appeal  to  Heaven  of  which  the  nine- 
teenth century  has  left  itself  capable — '  The  voice  of  thy 
Brother's  blood  crieth  to  me— your  outworn  cannon,  now 
silently  agape,  but  sonorous  in  the  ears  of  angels  with  that 
appeal) — first  inspiration,  I  say,  of  these  ;  constant  inspiration 
of  all  who  set  true  landmarks  and  hold  to  them,  knowing  their 
measure  ;  the  devil  interfering,  I  observe,  lately  in  his  own 
way,  with  the  Geometry  of  Yorkshire,  where  the  landed  pro- 
prietors,2 when  the  neglected  walls  by  the  roadside  tumble 

1  In  the  deep  sense  of  this  truth,  which  underlies  all  the  bright  fan- 
tasy and  humour  of  Mr.  Courthope's  "  Paradise  of  Birds,"  that  rhyme 
of  the  risen  spirit  of  Aristophanes  may  well  be  read  under  the  tower  of 
Giotto,  beside  his  watch-dog  of  the  fold. 

a 1  mean  no  accusation  against  any  class  ;  probably  the  one- fielded 
statesman  is  more  eager  for  his  little  gain  of  fifty  yards  of  grass  than  the 
squire  for  his  bite  and  sup  out  of  the  gypsy's  part  of  the  roadside.  But 


116 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


down,  benevolently  repair  the  same,  with  better  stonework, 
outside  always  of  the  fallen  heaps  ; — which,  the  wall  being 
thus  built  on  what  was  the  public  road,  absorb  themselves, 
with  help  of  moss  and  time,  into  the  heaving  swells  of  the 
rocky  field — and  behold,  gain  of  a  couple  of  feet — along  so 
much  of  the  road  as  needs  repairing  operations. 

This  then,  is  the  first  of  the  Christian  sciences  :  division  of 
land  rightly,  and  the  general  law  of  measuring  between 
wisely-held  compass  points.  The  type  of  mensuration,  circle 
in  square,  on  his  desk,  I  use  for  my  first  exercise  in  the  laws 
of  Fesole. 

21.  Sculpture. 

The  first  piece  of  the  closing  series  on  the  north  side  of  the 
Campanile,  of  which  some  general  points  must  be  first  noted, 
before  any  special  examination. 

The  two  initial  ones,  Sculpture  and  Painting,  are  by  tradi- 
tion the  only  ones  attributed  to  Giotto's  own  hand.  The 
fifth,  Song,  is  known,  and  recognizable  in  its  magnificence,  to 
be  by  Luca  deHa  Eobbia.  The  remaining  four  are  all  of 
Luca's  school, — later  work  therefore,  all  these  five,  than  any 
we  have  been  hitherto  examining,  entirely  different  in  manner, 
and  with  late  flower-work  beneath  them  instead  of  our  hitherto 
severe  Gothic  arches.  And  ifc  becomes  of  course  instantly  a 
vital  question — Did  Giotto  die  leaving  the  series  incomplete, 
only  its  subjects  chosen,  and  are  these  two  bas-reliefs  of 
Sculpture  and  Painting  among  his  last  works  ?  or  was  the 
series  ever  completed,  and  these  later  bas-reliefs  substituted 
for  the  earlier  ones,  under  Luca's  influence,  by  way  of  con- 
ducting the  whole  to  a  grander  close,  and  making  their  order 
more  representative  of  Florentine  art  in  its  fulness  of  power  ? 

I  must  repeat,  once  more,  and  with  greater  insistence  re- 

it  is  notable  enough  to  the  passing  traveller,  to  find  himself  shut  into  a 
narrow  road  between  high  stone  dykes  which  he  can  neither  see  over 
nor  climb  over,  (I  always  deliberately  pitch  them  down  myself,  wherever 
I  need  a  gap,)  instead  of  on  a  broad  road  between  low  grey  walls  with 
all  the  moor  beyond— and  the  power  of  leaping  over  when  he  choosey 
in  innocent  trespass  for  herb,  or  view,  or  splinter  of  grey  rock. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  TOWER. 


117 


specting  Sculpture  than  Painting,  that  I  do  not  in  the  least 
set  myself  up  for  a  critic  of  authenticity, — but  only  of  abso- 
lute goodness.  My  readers  may  trust  me  to  tell  them  what 
is  well  done  or  ill ;  but  by  whom,  is  quite  a  separate  question, 
needing  for  any  certainty,  in  this  school  of  much-associated 
masters  and  pupils,  extremest  attention  to  minute  particulars 
not  at  all  bearing  on  my  objects  in  teaching. 

Of  this  closing  group  of  sculptures,  then,  all  I  can  tell  you 
is  that  the  fifth  is  a  quite  magnificent  piece  of  work,  and 
recognizably,  to  my  extreme  conviction,  Luca  delia  Robbia's ; 
that  the  last,  Harmonia,  is  also  fine  work  ;  that  those  attrib- 
uted to  Giotto  are  fine  in  a  different  way, — and  the  other 
three  in  reality  the  poorest  pieces  in  the  series,  though  done 
with  much  more  advanced  sculptural  dexterity. 

But  I  am  chiefly  puzzled  by  the  two  attributed  to  Giotto, 
because  they  are  much  coarser  than  those  which  seem  to  me 
so  plainly  his  on  the  west  side,  and  slightly  different  in  work- 
manship— with  much  that  is  common  to  both,  however,  in 
the  casting  of  drapery  and  mode  of  introduction  of  details. 
The  difference  may  be  accounted  for  partly  by  haste  or  failing 
power,  partly  by  the  artist's  less  deep  feeling  of  the  impor- 
tance of  these  merely  symbolic  figures,  as  compared  with  those 
of  the  Fathers  of  the  Arts ;  but  it  is  very  notable  and  embar- 
rassing notwithstanding,  complicated  as  it  is  with  extreme 
resemblance  in  other  particulars. 

You  cannot  compare  the  subjects  on  the  tower  itself ;  but 
of  my  series  of  photographs  take  6  and  21,  and  put  them  side 
by  side. 

I  need  not  dwell  on  the  conditions  of  resemblance,  which 
are  instantly  visible  ;  but  the  difference  in  the  treatment  of  the 
heads  is  incomprehensible.  That  of  the  Tubal  Cain  is  exqui- 
sitely finished,  and  with  a  painter's  touch  ;  every  lock  of  the 
hair  laid  with  studied  flow,  as  in  the  most  beautiful  drawing. 
In  the  c  Sculpture/  it  is  struck  out  with  ordinary  tricks  of 
rapid  sculptor  trade,  entirely  unfinished,  and  with  offensively 
frank  use  of  the  drill  hole  to  give  picturesque  rustication  to 
the  beard. 

Next,  put  22  and  5  back  to  back.    You  see  again  the  re* 


118 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


semblance  in  the  earnestness  of  both  figures,  in  the  unbroken 
arcs  of  their  backs,  in  the  breaking  of  the  octagon  moulding 
by  the  pointed  angles  ;  and  here,  even  also  in  the  general  con- 
ception of  the  heads.  But  again,  in  the  one  of  Painting,  the 
hair  is  struck  with  more  vulgar  indenting  and  drilling,  and 
the  Gothic  of  the  picture  frame  is  less  precise  in  touch  and 
later  in  style.  Observe,  however, — and  this  may  perhaps 
give  us  some  definite  hint  for  clearing  the  question, — a  pict- 
ure-frame would  be  less  precise  in  making,  and  later  in  style, 
properly,  than  cusped  arches  to  be  put  under  the  feet  of  the 
inventor  of  all  musical  sound  by  breath  of  man.  And  if  you 
will  now  compare  finally  the  eager  tilting  of  the  workman's 
seat  in  22  and  6,  and  the  working  of  the  wood  in  the  painter's 
low  table  for  his  pots  of  colour,  and  his  three-legged  stool,  with 
that  of  Tubal  Cain's  anvil  block  ;  and  the  way  in  which  the 
lines  of  the  forge  and  upper  triptych  are  in  each  composition 
used  to  set  off  the  rounding  of  the  head,  I  believe  you  will 
have  little  hesitation  in  accepting  my  own  view  of  the  matter 
— namely,  that  the  three  pieces  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Arts  were 
wrought  with  Giotto's  extremest  care  for  the  most  precious 
stones  of  his  tower  ;  that  also,  being  a  sculptor  and  painter, 
he  did  the  other  two,  but  with  quite  definite  and  wilful  resolve 
that  they  should  be,  as  mere  symbols  of  his  own  two  trades, 
wholly  inferior  to  the  other  subjects  of  the  patriarchs ;  that  he 
made  the  Sculpture  picturesque  and  bold  as  you  see  it  is,  and 
showed  all  a  sculptor's  tricks  in  the  work  of  it ;  and  a  sculpt* 
or's  Greek  subject,  Bacchus,  for  the  model  of  it ;  that  he 
wrought  the  Painting,  as  the  higher  art,  with  more  care,  still 
keeping  it  subordinate  to  the  primal  subjects,  but  showed, 
for  a  lesson  to  all  the  generations  of  painters  for  evermore,— 
this  one  lesson,  like  his  circle  of  pure  line  containing  all 
others, — ( Your  soul  and  body  must  be  all  in  every  touch.' 

I  can't  resist  the  expression  of  a  little  piece  of  personal  ex- 
ultation, in  noticing  that  he  holds  his  pencil  as  I  do  myself : 
no  writing  master,  and  no  effort  (at  one  time  very  steady  for 
many  months),  having  ever  cured  me  of  that  way  of  holding 
both  pen  and  pencil  between  my  fore  and  second  finger  ;  the 
third  and  fourth  resting  the  backs  of  them  on  my  paper. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  TOWER. 


119 


As  I  finally  arrange  these  notes  for  press,  I  am  further 
confirmed  in  my  opinion  by  discovering  little  finishings  in  the 
two  later  pieces  which  I  was  not  before  aware  of.  I  beg  the 
masters  of  High  Art,  and  sublime  generalization,  to  take  a 
good  magnifying  glass  to  the  6  Sculpture '  and  look  at  the  way 
Giotto  has  cut  the  compasses,  the  edges  of  the  chisels,  and 
the  keyhole  of  the  lock  of  the  toolbox. 

For  the  rest,  nothing  could  be  more  probable,  in  the  con- 
fused and  perpetually  false  mass  of  Florentine  tradition,  than 
the  preservation  of  the  memory  of  Giotto's  carving  his  own  two 
trades,  and  the  forgetfulness,  or  quite  as  likely  ignorance,  of 
the  part  he  took  with  Andrea  Pisano  in  the  initial  sculptures. 

I  now  take  up  the  series  of  subjects  at  the  point  where  we 
broke  off,  to  trace  their  chain  of  philosophy  to  its  close. 

To  Geometry,  which  gives  to  every  man  his  possession  of 
house  and  land,  succeed  21,  Sculpture,  and  22,  Painting,  the 
adornments  of  permanent  habitation.  And  then,  the  great 
arts  of  education  in  a  Christian  home.    First — 

23.  Grammar,  or  more  properly  Literature  altogether,  of 
which  we  have  already  seen  the  ancient  power  in  the  Spanish 
Chapel  series ;  then, 

24.  Arithmetic,  central  here  as  also  in  the  Spanish  Chapel, 
for  the  same  reasons ;  here,  more  impatiently  asserting,  with 
both  hands,  that  two,  on  the  right,  you  observe — and  two  on 
the  left — do  indeed  and  for  ever  make  Four.  Keep  your 
accounts,  you,  with  your  book  of  double  entry,  on  that 
principle  ;  and  you  will  be  safe  in  this  world  and  the  next, 
in  your  steward's  office.  But  by  no  means  so,  if  you  ever 
admit  the  usurers  Gospel  of  Arithmetic,  that  two  and  two 
make  Five. 

You  see  by  the  rich  hem  of  his  robe  that  the  asserter  of 
this  economical  first  principle  is  a  man  wrell  to  do  in  the  world. 

25.  Logic. 

The  art  of  Demonstration.  Vulgarest  of  the  whole  series ; 
far  too  expressive  of  the  mode  in  which  argument  is  con- 
ducted by  those  who  are  not  masters  of  its  reins. 


120 


MORNINGS  IN  FLORENCE. 


26.  Song. 

The  essential  power  of  music  in  animal  life.  Orpheus,  the 
symbol  of  it  all,  the  inventor  properly  of  Music,  the  Law  of 
Kindness,  as  Daedalus  of  Music,  the  Law  of  Construction. 
Hence  the  "  Orphic  life  "  is  one  of  ideal  mercy,  (vegetarian,) 
—Plato,  Laws,  Book  VI.,  782, — and  he  is  named  first  after 
Daedalus,  and  in  balance  to  him  as  head  of  the  school  of  har- 
monists, in  Book  III.,  677,  (Steph.)  Look  for  the  two  sing- 
ing birds  clapping  their  wings  in  the  tree  above  him  :  then 
the  five  mystic  beasts, — closest  to  his  feet  the  irredeemable 
boar  ;  then  lion  and  bear,  tiger,  unicorn,  and  fiery  dragon 
closest  to  his  head,  the  flames  of  its  mouth  mingling  with  his 
breath  as  he  sings.  The  audient  eagle,  alas  !  has  lost  the 
beak,  and  is  only  recognizable  by  his  proud  holding  of  him- 
self ;  the  duck,  sleepily  delighted  after  muddy  dinner,  close 
to  his  shoulder,  is  a  true  conquest.  Hoopoe,  or  indefinite 
bird  of  crested  race,  behind  ;  of  the  other  three  no  clear  cer- 
tainty. The  leafage  throughout  such  as  only  Luca  could  do, 
and  the  whole  consummate  in  skill  and  understanding. 

27.  Harmony. 

Music  of  Song,  in  the  full  power  of  it,  meaning  perfect 
education  in  all  art  of  the  Muses  and  of  civilized  life :  the 
mystery  of  its  concord  is  taken  for  the  symbol  of  that  of  a 
perfect  state  ;  one  day,  doubtless,  of  the  perfect  world.  So 
13rophesies  the  last  corner  stone  of  the  Shepherd's  Tower. 


TIME  AND  TIDE 

BY  WEARE  AND  TYNE 


TWENTY-FIVE  LETTERS  TO  A  WORKINGMAN  OF  SUNDER- 
LAND ON  THE  LAWS  OF  WORK 


PEEFACE. 


The  following  letters  were  written  to  Mr.  Thomas  Dixon,  a 
working  cork -cutter  of  Sunderland,  during  the  agitation  for 
reform  in  the  spring  of  the  present  year.  They  contain,  in 
the  plainest  terms  I  could  use,  the  substance  of  what  I  then 
desired  to  say  to  our  English  workmen,  which  was  briefly 
this  : — "  The  reform  you  desire  may  give  you  more  influence 
in  Parliament ;  but  your  influence  there  will  of  course  be  use- 
less to  you, — perhaps  worse  than  useless, — until  you  have 
wisely  made  up  your  minds  as  to  what  you  wish  Parliament 
to  do  for  you  ;  and  when  you  have  made  up  your  minds  about 
that,  you  will  find,  not  only  that  you  can  do  it  for  yourselves, 
without  the  intervention  of  Parliament  ;  but  that  eventually 
nobody  but  yourselves  can  do  it.  And  to  help  you,  as  far  as" 
one  of  your  old  friends  may,  in  so  making  up  your  minds, 
such  and  such  things  are  what  it  seems  to  me  you  should  ask 
for,  and,  moreover,  strive  for,  with  your  heart  and  might." 

The  letters  now  published  relate  only  to  one  division  of  the 
laws  which  I  desired  to  recommend  to  the  consideration  of  our 
operatives, — those,  namely,  bearing  upon  honesty  of  work,  and 
honesty  of  exchange.  I  hope  in  the  course  of  next  year  that 
I  may  be  able  to  complete  the  second  part  of  the  series,  which 
will  relate  to  the  possible  comforts  and  wholesome  laws  of  fa- 


124 


PREFACE. 


miliar  household  life,  and  the  share  which  a  labouring  nation 
may  attain  in  the  skill,  and  the  treasures,  of  the  higher  arts. 

The  letters  are  republished  as  they  were  written,  with  here 
and  there  correction  of  a  phrase,  and  omission  of  one  or  two 
passages  of  merely  personal  or  temporary  interest ;  the  head- 
ings only  are  added,  in  order  to  give  the  reader  some  clue  to 
the  general  aim  of  necessarily  desultory  discussion  ;  and  the 
portions  of  Mr.  Dixon's  letters  in  reply,  referred  to  in  the  text, 
are  added  in  the  Appendix  ;  and  will  be  found  well  deserving 
of  attention. 

Denmark  Hill,  December  149 1867. 


TIME  AND  TIDE, 
BY  WEARE  AND  TYNE, 


LETTER  I. 

THE  TWO  KINDS  OF    CO-OPERATION. — IN    ITS    HIGHEST    SENSE  IT  IS 
NOT  YET  THOUGHT  OF. 

Denmark  Hill,  February  4,  1867. 

My  dear  Friend — You  have  now  everything  I  have  yet 
published  on  political  economy  ;  but  there  are  several  points  in 
these  books  of  mine  which  I  intended  to  add  notes  to,  and  it 
seems  little  likely  I  shall  get  that  soon  done.  So  I  think  the 
best  way  of  making  up  for  the  want  of  these  is  to  write  you 
a  few  simple  letters,  which  you  can  read  to  other  people,  or 
send  to  be  printed,  if  you  like,  in  any  of  your  journals  where 
you  think  they  may  be  useful. 

I  especially  want  you,  for  one  thing,  to  understand  the 
sense  in  which  the  word  "  co-operation  "  is  used  in  my  books. 
You  will  find  I  am  always  pleading  for  it ;  and  yet  I  don't  at 
all  mean  the  co-operation  of  partnership  (as  opposed  to  the 
system  of  wages)  which  is  now  so  gradually  extending  itself 
among  our  great  firms.  I  am  glad  to  see  it  doing  so,  yet  not 
altogether  glad  ;  for  none  of  you  who  are  engaged  in  the  im- 
mediate struggle  between  the  system  of  co-operation  and  the 
system  of  mastership  know  how  much  the  dispute  involves  ; 
and  none  of  us  know  the  results  to  which  it  may  finally  lead. 
For  the  alternative  is  not,  in  reality,  only  between  two  modes 
of  conducting  business — it  is  between  two  different  states  of 
society.    It  is  not  the  question  whether  an  amount  of  wages, 


126 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


no  greater  in  the  end  than  that  at  present  received  by  the 
men,  may  be  paid  to  them  in  a  way  which  shall  give  them 
share  in  the  risks,  and  interest  in  the  prosperity  of  the  busi- 
ness. The  question  is,  really,  whether  the  profits  which  are 
at  present  taken,  as  his  own  right,  by  the  person  whose  cap- 
ital, or  energy,  or  ingenuity,  has  made  him  head  of  the  firm, 
are  not  in  some  proportion  to  be  divided  among  the  subor- 
dinates of  it. 

I  do  not  wish,  for  the  moment,  to  enter  into  any  inquiry  as 
to  the  just  claims  of  capital,  or  as  to  the  proportions  in  which 
profits  ought  to  be,  or  are  in  actually  existing  firms,  divided. 
I  merely  take  the  one  assured  and  essential  condition,  that  a 
somewhat  larger  income  will  be  in  co-operative  firms  secured  to 
the  subordinates,  by  the  diminution  of  the  income  of  the  chief. 
And  the  general  tendency  of  such  a  system  is  to  increase  the 
facilities  of  advancement  among  the  subordinates  ;  to  stimulate 
their  ambition  ;  to  enable  them  to  lay  by,  if  they  are  provident, 
more  ample  and  more  early  provision  for  declining  years  ;  and 
to  form  in  the  end  a  vast  class  of  persons  wholly  different  from 
the  existing  operative — members  of  society,  possessing  each 
a  moderate  competence  ;  able  to  procure,  therefore,  not  in- 
deed many  of  the  luxuries,  but  all  the  comforts  of  life  ;  and  to 
devote  some  leisure  to  the  attainments  of  liberal  education, 
and  to  the  other  objects  of  free  life.  On  the  other  hand,  by 
the  exact  sum  which  is  divided  among  them,  more  than  their 
present  wages,  the  fortune  of  the  man  who,  under  the  present 
system,  takes  all  the  profits  of  the  business,  will  be  dimin- 
ished ;  and  the  acquirement  of  large  private  fortune  by  regu- 
lar means,  and  all  the  conditions  of  life  belonging  to  such 
fortune,  will  be  rendered  impossible  in  the  mercantile  com- 
munity. 

Now,  the  magnitude  of  the  social  change  hereby  involved, 
and  the  consequent  differences  in  the  moral  relations  between 
individuals,  have  not  as  yet  been  thought  of, — much  less  esti- 
mated,— by  any  of  your  writers  on  commercial  subjects  ;  and 
it  is  because  I  do  not  yet  feel  able  to  grapple  with  them  that 
I  have  left  untouched,  in  the  books  I  send  you,  the  question  of 
co-operative  labour.    When  I  use  the  word  "  co-operation, "  it 


CO-OPERATION. 


127 


is  not  meant  to  refer  to  these  new  constitutions  of  firms  at  all. 
I  use  the  word  in  a  far  wider  sense,  as  opposed,  not  to  mas- 
terhood,  but  to  competition.  I  do  not  mean  for  instance,  by 
co-operation,  that  all  the  master  bakers  in  a  town  are  to  give 
a  share-  of  their  profits  to  the  men  who  go  out  with  the  bread  ; 
but  that  the  masters  are  not  to  try  to  undersell  each  other, 
nor  seek  each  to  get  the  other's  business,  but  are  all  to  form 
one  society,  selling  to  the  public  under  a  common  law  of  se- 
vere penalty  for  unjust  dealing,  and  at  an  established  price. 
I  do  not  mean  that  all  bankers'  clerks  should  be  partners  in 
the  bank  ;  but  I  do  mean  that  all  bankers  should  be  members 
of  a  great  national  body,  answerable  as  a  society  for  all  de- 
posits ;  and  that  the  private  business  of  speculating  with  other 
people's  money  should  take  another  name  than  that  of  "  bank- 
ing." And,  for  final  instance,  I  mean  by  "co-operation"  not 
only  fellowships  between  trading  firms,  but  between  trading 
nations  ;  so  that  it  shall  no  more  be  thought  (as  it  is  now, 
with  ludicrous  and  vain  selfishness)  an  advantage  for  one  na- 
tion to  undersell  another,  and  take  its  occupation  away  from 
it ;  but  that  the  primal  and  eternal  law  of  vital  commerce  shall 
be  of  all  men  understood — namely,  that  every  nation  is  fitted 
by  its  character,  and  the  nature  of  its  territories,  for  some  par- 
ticular employments  or  manufactures  ;  and  that  it  is  the  true 
interest  of  every  other  nation  to  encourage  it  in  such  specialty, 
and  by  no  means  to  interfere  with,  but  in  all  ways  forward  and 
protect  its  efforts,  ceasing  all  rivalship  with  it,  so  soon  as  it  is 
strong  enough  to  occupy  its  proper  place.  You  see,  therefore, 
that  the  idea  of  co-operation,  in  the  sense  in  which  I  employ  it, 
has  hardly  yet  entered  into  the  minds  of  political  inquirers  ; 
and  I  will  not  pursue  it  at  present ;  but  return  to  that  system 
which  is  beginning  to  obtain  credence  and  practice  among  us 
This,  however,  must  be  in  a  following  letter. 


128 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


LETTER  II 

CO-OPERATION,  AS  HITHERTO  UNDERSTOOD,  IS  PERHAPS  NOT  EX- 
PEDIENT. 

February  4,  1867. 

Limiting  the  inquiry,  then,  for  the  present,  as  proposed  in 
the  close  of  my  last  letter,  to  the  form  of  co-operation  which 
is  now  upon  its  trial  in  practice,  I  would  beg  of  you  to  observe 
that  the  points  at  issue,  in  the  comparison  of  this  system  with 
that  of  mastership,  are  by  no  means  hitherto  frankly  stated  ; 
still  less  can  they  as  yet  be  fairly  brought  to  test.  For  all 
mastership  is  not  alike  in  principle ;  there  are  just  and  unjust 
masterships ;  and  while,  on  the  one  hand,  there  can  be  no 
question  but  that  co-operation  is  better  than  unjust  and  tyran- 
nous mastership,  there  is  very  great  room  for  doubt  whether 
it  be  better  than  a  just  and  benignant  mastership. 

At  present  you — every  one  of  you — speak,  and  act,  as  if 
there  were  only  one  alternative ;  namely,  between  a  system  in 
which  profits  shall  be  divided  in  due  proportion  among  all ; 
and  the  present  one,  in  which  the  workman  is  paid  the  least 
wages  he  will  take,  under  the  pressure  of  competition  in  the 
labour-market.  But  an  intermediate  method  is  conceivable  ; 
a  method  which  appears  to  be  more  prudent,  and  in  its  ulti- 
mate results  more  just,  than  the  co-operative  one.  An  arrange- 
ment may  be  supposed,  and  I  have  good  hope  also  may  one 
day  be  effected,  by  which  every  subordinate  shall  be  paid  suf- 
ficient and  regular  wages,  according  to  his  rank ;  by  which 
due  provision  shall  be  made  out  of  the  profits  of  the  business 
for  sick  and  superannuated  workers  ;  and  by  which  the  master, 
being  held  responsible,  as  a  minor  king  or  governor,  for  the- con- 
duct as  well  as  the  comfort  of  all  those  under  his  rule,  shall,  on 
that  condition,  be  permitted  to  retain  to  his  own  use  the  sur- 
plus profits  of  the  business,  which  the  fact  of  his  being  its 
master  may  be  assumed  to  prove  that  he  has  organized  by 
superior  intellect  and  energy.  And  I  think  this  principle  of 
regular  wage-paying,  whether  it  be  in  the  abstract  more  just, 
or  not,  is  at  all  events  the  more  prudent ;  for  this  reason 


CONTENTMENT. 


129 


mainly,  that  in  spifce  of  all  the  cant  which  is  continually  talked 
by  cruel,  foolish,  or  designing  persons  about  "  the  duty  of  re- 
maining content  in  the  position  in  which  Providence  has 
placed  you,"  there  is  a  root  of  the  very  deepest  and  holiest 
truth  in  the  saying,  which  gives  to  it  such  power  as  it  still  re- 
tains, even  uttered  by  unkind  and  unwise  lips,  and  received 
into  doubtful  and  embittered  hearts. 

If,  indeed,  no  effort  be  made  to  discover,  in  the  course  of 
their  early  training,  for  what  services  the  youths  of  a  nation 
are  individually  qualified  ;  or  any  care  taken  to  place  those 
w7ho  have  unquestionably  proved  their  fitness  for  certain  func- 
tions, in  the  offices  they  could  best  fulfil, — then,  to  call  the 
confused  wreck  of  social  order  and  life  brought  about  by  ma- 
licious  collision  and  competition  an  arrangement  of  Providence, 
is  quite  one  of  the  most  insolent  and  wicked  ways  in  which  it 
is  possible  to  take  the  name  of  God  in  vain.  But  if,  at  the 
proper  time  some  earnest  effort  be  made  to  place  youths,  ac- 
cording to  their  capacities,  in  the  occupations  for  which  they 
are  fitted,  I  think  the  system  of  organization  will  be  finally 
found  the  best, which  gives  the  least  encouragement  to  thoughts 
of  any  great  future  advance  in  social  life. 

The  healthy  sense  of  progress,  which  is  necessary  to  the 
strength  and  happiness  of  men,  does  not  consist  in  the  anxiety 
of  a  struggle  to  attain  higher  place  or  rank,  but  in  gradually 
perfecting  the  manner,  and  accomplishing  the  ends,  of  the 
life  which  we  have  chosen,  or  which  circumstances  have  deter- 
mined for  us.  Thus,  I  think  the  object  of  a  workman's  am- 
bition should  not  be  to  become  a  master ;  but  to  attain  daily 
more  subtle  and  exemplary  skill  in  his  own  craft,  to  save  from 
his  wages  enough  to  enrich  and  complete  his  home  gradually 
with  more  delicate  and  substantial  comforts ;  and  to  lay  by 
such  store  as  shall  be  sufficient  for  the  happy  maintenance  of 
his  old  age  (rendering  him  independent  of  the  help  provided 
for  the  sick  and  indigent  by  the  arrangement  pre-supposed), 
and  sufficient  also  for  the  starting  of  his  children  in  a  rank  of 
life  equal  to  his  own.  If  his  wages  are  not  enough  to  enable 
him  to  do  this,  they  are  unjustly  low ;  if  they  are  once  raised 
to  this  adequate  standard,  I  do  not  think  that  by  the  possible 


130 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


increase  of  his  gains  under  contingencies  of  trade,  or  by  divi- 
sions of  profits  with  his  master,  he  should  be  enticed  into 
feverish  hope  of  an  entire  change  of  condition  ;  and  as  an  al- 
most  necessary  consequence,  pass  his  days  in  an  anxious  dis- 
content with  immediate  circumstances,  and  a  comfortless  scorn 
of  his  daily  life,  for  which  no  subsequent  success  could  in- 
demnify him.  And  I  am  the  more  confident  in  this  belief, 
because,  even  supposing  a  gradual  rise  in  sociable  rank  pos- 
sible for  all  well-conducted  persons,  my  experience  does  not 
lead  me  to  think  the  elevation  itself,  when  attained,  would  be 
conducive  to  their  happiness. 

The  grounds  of  this  opinion  I  will  give  you  in  a  future 
letter ;  in  the  present  one,  I  must  pass  to  a  more  important 
point,  namely,  that  if  this  stability  of  condition  be  indeed 
desirable  for  those  in  whom  existing  circumstances  might 
seem  to  justify  discontent,  much  more  must  it  be  good  and 
desirable  for  those  who  already  possess  everything  which  can 
be  conceived  necessary  to  happiness.  It  is  the  merest  in- 
solence of  selfishness  to  preach  contentment  to  a  labourer  who 
gets  thirty  shillings  a  week,  while  we  suppose  an  active  and 
plotting  covetousness  to  be  meritorious  in  a  man  who  has 
three  thousand  a  year.  In  this,  as  in  all  other  points  of  mental 
discipline,  it  is  the  duty  of  the  upper  classes  to  set  an  example 
to  the  lower  ;  and  to  recommend  and  justify  the  restraint  of 
the  ambition  of  their  inferiors,  chiefly  by  severe  and  timely 
limitation  of  their  own.  And,  without  at  present  inquiring 
into  the  greater  or  less  convenience  of  the  possible  methods 
of  accomplishing  such  an  object  (every  detail  in  suggestions 
of  this  kind  necessarily  furnishing  separate  matter  of  dispute), 
I  will  merely  state  my  long  fixed  conviction,  that  one  of  the 
most  important  conditions  of  a  healthful  system  of  social 
economy,  would  be  the  restraint  of  the  properties  and  in- 
comes of  the  upper  classes  within  certain  fixed  limits.  The 
temptation  to  use  every  energy  in  the  accumulation  of  wealth 
being  thus  removed,  another,  and  a  higher  ideal  of  the  duties 
of  advanced  life  would  be  necessarily  created  in  the  national 
mind  ;  by  withdrawal  of  those  who  had  attained  the  pre- 
scribed limits  of  wealth  from  commercial  competition,  earlier 


LEGISLATION. 


131 


worldly  success,  and  earlier  marriage,  with  all  its  beneficent 
moral  results,  would  become  possible  to  the  young  ;  while 
the  older  men  of  active  intellect,  whose  sagacity  is  now  lost 
or  warped  in  the  furtherance  of  their  own  meanest  interests, 
would  be  induced  unselfishly  to  occupy  themselves  in  the 
superintendence  of  public  institutions,  or  furtherance  of  public 
advantage. 

And  out  of  this  class  it  would  be  found  natural  and  pru- 
dent always  to  choose  the  members  of  the  legislative  body  of 
the  Commons  ;  and  to  attach  to  the  order  also  some  peculiar 
honors,  in  the  possession  of  which  such  complacency  would 
be  felt  as  would  more  than  replace  the  unworthy  satisfac- 
tion of  being  supposed  richer  than  others,  which  to  many 
men  is  the  principal  charm  of  their  wealth.  And  although  no 
law  of  this  purport  would  ever  be  imposed  on  themselves  by 
the  actual  upper  classes,  there  is  no  hindrance  to  its  being 
gradually  brought  into  force  from  beneath,  without  any  vio- 
lent or  impatient  proceedings  ;  and  this  I  will  endeavour  to 
show  in  my  next  letter. 


LETTER  III. 

OF  TKUE  LEGISLATION. — THAT  EVERY  MAN  MAY  BE  A  LAW  TO  HIMSELF. 

February  17,  1867. 
No,  I  have  not  been  much  worse  in  health ;  but  I  was 
asked  by  a  friend  to  look  over  some  work  in  which  you  will 
all  be  deeply  interested  one  day,  so  that  I  could  not  write 
again  till  now.-  I  was  the  more  sorry,  because  there  were 
several  things  I  wished  to  note  in  your  last  letter  ;  one  espe- 
cially leads  me  directly  to  what  I  in  any  case  wras  desirous  of 
urging  upon  you.  You  say,  "  In  vol.  6th  of  Frederick  the 
Great  I  find  a  great  deal  that  I  feel  quite  certain,  if  our 
Queen  or  Government  could  make  law,  thousands  of  our 
English  workmen  would  hail  with  a  shout  of  joy  and  glad- 
ness/   I  do  not  remember  to  what  you.  especially  allude. 


132 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


but  whatever  the  rules  you  speak  of  may  be,  unless  there  be 
anything  in  them  contrary  to  the  rights  of  present  English 
property,  why  should  you  care  whether  the  Government 
makes  them  law  or  not?  Can  you  not,  you  thousands  of 
English  workmen,  simply  make  them  a  law  to  yourselves,  by 
practising  them  ? 

It  is  now  some  five  or  six  years  since  I  first  had  occasion  to 
speak  to  the  members  of  the  London  Working  Men's  College 
on  the  subject  of  Reform,  and  the  substance  of  what  I  said  to 
them  wras.  this :  "  You  are  all  agape,  my  friends,  for  this 
mighty  privilege  of  having  your  opinions  represented  in  Par- 
liament. The  concession  might  be  desirable, — at  all  events 
courteous, — if  only  it  were  quite  certain  you  had  got  any 
opinions  to  represent.  But  have  you  ?  Are  you  agreed  on 
any  single  thing  you  systematically  want?  Less  work  and 
more  wages,  of  course  ;  but  how  much  lessening  of  work  do 
you  suppose  is  possible  ?  Do  you  think  the  time  will  ever 
come  for  everybody  to  have  no  work  and  all  wages  ?  Or  have 
you  yet  taken  the  trouble  so  much  as  to  think  out  the  nature 
of  the  true  connection  between  wages  and  work,  and  to  de- 
termine, even  approximately,  the  real  quantity  of  the  one,  that 
can,  according  to  the  laws  of  God  and  nature,  be  given  for 
the  other  ;  for,  rely  on  it,  make  what  laws  you  like,  that 
quantity  only  can  you  at  last  get  ? 

"Do  you  know  how  many  mouths  can  be  fed  on  an  acre  of 
land,  or  how  fast  those  mouths  multiply ;  and  have  you  con- 
sidered what  is  to  be  done  finally  with  unfeedable  mouths? 
4 Send  them  to  be  fed  elsewhere,'  do  you  say?  Have  you, 
then,  formed  any  opinion  as  to  the  time  at  which  emi- 
gration should  begin,  or  the  countries  to  which  it  should 
preferably  take  place,  or  the  kind  of  population  which  should 
be  left  at  home?  Have  you  planned  the  permanent  state 
which  you  would  wish  England  to  hold,  emigrating  over  her 
edges,  like  a  full  well,  constantly?  How  full  would  you  have 
her  be  of  people,  first;  and  of  what  sort  of  people?  Do  you 
want  her  to  be  nothing  but  a  large  workshop  and  forge,  so  that 
the  name  of  'Englishman'  shall  be  synonymous  with  ' iron- 
monger/ all  over  the  world ;  or  would  you  like  to  keep  some 


LEGISLATION. 


133 


of  your  lords  and  landed  gentry  still,  and  a  few  green  fields 
and  trees? 

"You  know  well  enough  that  there  is  not  one  of  these 
questions,  I  do  not  say  which  you  can  answer,  but  which  you 
have  ever  thought  of  answering  ;  and  yet  you  want  to  have 
voices  in  Parliament !  Your  voices  are  not  worth  a  rat's 
squeak,  either  in  Parliament  or  out  of  it,  till  you  have  some 
ideas  to  utter  with  them  ;  and  when  you  have  the  thoughts, 
you  will  not  want  to  utter  them,  for  you  will  see  that  your  way 
to  the  fulfilling  of  them  does  not  lie  through  speech.  You 
think  such  matters  need  debating  about  ?  By  all  means  de- 
bate about  them  ;  but  debate  among  yourselves,  and  with 
such  honest  helpers  of  your  thoughts  as  you  can  find.  If  that 
way  you  cannot  get  at  the  truth,  do  you  suppose  you  could 
get  at  it  sooner  in  the  House  of  Commons,  where  the  only 
aim  of  many  of  the  members  would  be  to  refute  every  word 
uttered  in  your  favour  ;  and  where  the  settlement  of  any 
question  whatever  depends  merely  on  the  perturbations  of 
the  balance  of  conflicting  interests  ?  " 

That  was,  in  main  particulars,  what  I  then  said  to  the  men 
of  the  Working  Men's  College  ;  and  in  this  recurrent  agita< 
tion  about  Reform,  that  is  what  I  would  steadfastly  say  again, 
Do  you  think  it  is  only  under  the  lacquered  splendours  of 
Westminster, — you  working  men  of  England, — that  your  af- 
fairs can  be  rationally  talked  over  ?  You  have  perfect  liberty 
and  power  to  talk  over,  and  establish  for  yourselves,  whatever 
laws  you  please,  so  long  as  you  do  not  interfere  with  other 
people's  liberties  or  properties.  Elect  a  parliament  of  your 
own.  Choose  the  best  men  among  you,  the  best  at  least  you 
can  find,  by  whatever  system  of  election  you  think  likeliest  to 
secure  such  desirable  result.  Invite  trustworthy  persons  of 
other  classes  to  join  your  council ;  appoint  time  and  place  for 
its  stated  sittings,  and  let  this  parliament,  chosen  after  your 
own  hearts,  deliberate  upon  the  possible  modes  of  the  regu- 
lation of  industry,  and  advisablest  schemes  for  helpful  disci- 
pline of  life  ;  and  so  lay  before  you  the  best  laws  they  can  de- 
vise, which  such  of  you  as  were  wise  might  submit  to,  and 
teach  their  children  to  obey.    And  if  any  of  the  laws  thus  de- 


TIME  AND  TILE. 


terminal  appeared  to  be  inconsistent  with  the  present  cir- 
cumstances  or  customs  of  trade,  do  not  make  a  noise  about 
them,  nor  try  to  enforce  them  suddenly  on  others,  nor  em- 
broider them  on  flags,  nor  call  meetings  in  parks  about  them, 
in  spite  of  railings  and  police  ;  but  keep  them  in  your 
thoughts  and  sight,  as  objects  of  patient  purpose,  and  future 
achievement  by  peaceful  strength. 

For  you  need  not  think  that  even  if  you  obtained  a  ma- 
jority of  representatives  in  the  existing  parliament,  you  could 
immediately  compel  any  system  of  business,  broadly  contrary 
to  that  now  established  by  custom.  If  you  could  pass  laws 
to-morrow,  wholly  favourable  to  yourselves,  as  you  might 
think,  because  unfavourable  to  your  masters,  and  to  the  upper 
classes  of  society, — the  only  result  would  be,  that  the  riches 
of  the  country  would  at  once  leave  it,  and  you  would  perish 
in  riot  and  famine.  Be  assured  that  no  great  change  for  the 
better  can  ever  be  easily  accomplished,  nor  quickly  ;  nor  by 
impulsive,  ill-regulated  effort,  nor  by  bad  men  ;  nor  even  by 
good  men,  without  much  suffering.  The  suffering  must,  in- 
deed, come,  one  way  or  another,  in  all  greatly  critical  periods  ; 
the  only  question,  for  us,  is  whether  we  will  reach  our  ends  (if 
w^e  ever  reach  them)  through  a  chain  of  involuntary  miseries, 
many  of  them  useless,  and  all  ignoble ;  or  whether  we  will 
know  the  worst  at  once,  and  deal  with  it  by  the  wisely  sharp 
methods  of  God-sped  courage. 

This,  I  repeat  to  you,  it  is  wholly  in  your  own  power  to  do, 
but  it  is  in  your  power  on  one  condition  only,  that  of  stead- 
fast truth  to  yourselves  and  to  all  men.  If  there  is  not,  in 
the  sum  of  it,  honesty  enough  among  you  to  teach  you  to 
frame,  and  strengthen  you  to  obey,  just  laws  of  trade,  there 
is  no  hope  left  for  you.  No  political  constitution  can  en- 
noble knaves  ;  no  privileges  can  assist  them  ;  no  possessions 
enrich  them.  Their  gains  are  occult  curses  ;  comfortless  loss 
their  truest  blessing  ;  failure  and  pain  Nature's  only  mercy  to 
them.  Look  to  it,  therefore,  first,  that  you  get  some  whole- 
some honesty  for  the  foundation  of  all  things.  Without  the 
resolution  in  your  hearts  to  do  good  work,  so  long  as  your 
right  hands  have  motion  in  them  ;  and  to  do  it  whether  the 


EXPENDITURE. 


135 


issue  be  that  you  die  or  live,  no  life  worthy  the  name  will  ever 
be  possible  to  you,  while,  in  once  forming  the  resolution  that 
your  work  is  to  be  well  done,  life  is  really  won,  here  and  for 
ever.  And  to  make  your  children  capable  of  such  resolution, 
is  the  beginning  of  all  true  education,  of  which  I  have  more 
to  say  in  a  future  letter. 


LETTER  m 

THE  EXPENSES  FOR  ART  AND  FOR  WAR. 

February  19,  1887. 

In  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  of  yesterday,  second  column  of 
second  page,  you  will  find,  close  to  each  other,  two  sentences 
which  bear  closely  on  matters  in  hand.  The  first  of  these  is 
the  statement,  that  in  the  debate  on  the  grant  for  the  Blacas 
collection,  "  Mr.  Bernal  Osborne  got  an  assenting  cheer, 
when  he  said  that  ?  whenever  science  and  art  were  mentioned 
it  was  a  sign  to  look  after  the  national  pockets.' "  I  want  you 
to  notice  this  fact,  i.e.  (the  debate  in  question  being  on  a 
total  grant  of  164,000Z.  of  which  48,000/.  only  were  truly  for 
art's  sake,  and  the  rest  for  shop's  sake),  in  illustration  of  a 
passage  in  my  Sesame  and  Lilies,  pp.  56  and  57, 1  to  which  I 
shall  have  again  to  refer  you,  with  some  further  comments,  in 
the  sequel  of  these  letters.  The  second  passage  is  to  the 
effect  that  "  The  Trades'  Union  Bill  was  read  a  second  time, 
after  a  claim  from  Mr.  Hadfield,  Mr.  Osborne,  and  Mr. 
Samuelson,  to  admit  working  men  into  the  commission  ;  to 
which  Mr.  Watkins  answered  c  that  the  working  men's  friend 
was  too  conspicuous  in  the  body  ; '  and  Mr.  Roebuck,  '  that 
when  a  butcher  was  tried  for  murder  it  wras  not  necessaiy  to 
have  butchers  on  the  jury.' " 

Note  this  second  passage  with  respect  to  what  I  said  in  my 
last  letter,  as  to  the  impossibility  of  the  laws  of  work  being 
investigated  in  the  House  of  Commons.  What  admixture  of 
elements,  think  you,  would   avail  to  obtain  so  much  as 

1  Appendix  1. 


136 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


decent  hearing  (how  should  we  then  speak  of  impartial 
judgment?)  of  the  cause  of  working  men,  in  an  assembly 
which  permits  to  one  of  its  principal  members  this  insolent 
discourtesy  of  language,  in  dealing  with  a  preliminary  ques- 
tion of  the  highest  importance  ;  and  permits  it  as  so  far  ex- 
pressive of  the  whole  colour  and  tone  of  its  own  thoughts, 
that  the  sentence  is  quoted  by  one  of  the  most  temperate  and 
accurate  of  our  daily  journals,  as  representing  the  total 
answer  of  the  opposite  side  in  the  debate  ?  No  ;  be  assured 
you  can  do  nothing  yet  at  Westminster.  You  must  have  your 
own  parliament,  and  if  you  cannot  detect  enough  honesty 
among  you  to  constitute  a  justly-minded  one,  for  the  present 
matters  must  take  their  course,  and  that  will  be,  yet  awhile, 
to  the  worse. 

I  meant  to  have  continued  this  subject,  but  I  see  two  other 
statements  in  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  of  to-day,  with  which,  and 
a  single  remark  upon  them,  I  think  it  will  be  well  to  close 
my  present  letter. 

1.  "  The  total  sum  asked  for  in  the  army  estimates,  pub- 
lished this  morning,  is  14,752,200/.,  being  an  increase  of 
412,000/.  over  the  previous  year." 

2.  "Yesterday  the  annual  account  of  the  navy  receipts  and 
expenditure  for  the  year  ending  31st  March,  1866,  was  issued 
from  the  Admiralty.    The  expenditure  was  10,268,215/.  7s." 

Omitting  the  seven  shillings,  and  even  the  odd  hundred 
thousands  of  pounds,  the  net  annual  expenditure  for  army 
and  navy  appears  to  be  twenty-four  millions. 

The  "  grant  in  science  and  art,"  two-thirds  of  which  was 
not  in  reality  for  either,  but  for  amusement  and  shop  in- 
terests in  the  Paris  Exhibition — the  grant  which  the  House 
of  Commons  feels  to  be  indicative  of  general  clanger  to  the 
national  pockets — is,  as  above  stated,  164,000/.  Now,  I  be- 
lieve the  three  additional  ciphers  which  turn  thousands  into 
millions  produce  on  the  intelligent  English  mind  usually,  the 
effect  of— three  ciphers.  But  calculate  the  proportion  of 
fchese  two  sums,  and  then  imagine  to  yourself  the  beautiful 
state  of  rationality  of  any  private  gentleman,  who,  having  re- 
gretfully spent  164/.  on  pictures  for  his  walls,  paid  willingly 


ENTERTAINMENT. 


137 


24,000?.  annually  to  the  policemen  who  looked  after  his 
shutters  !  You  practical  English  ! — will  you  ever  unbar  the 
shutters  of  your  brains,  and  hang  a  picture  or  two  in  those 
state  chambers? 


LETTER  V. 

THE  CORRUPTION  OF  MODERN   PLEASURE.  (COVENT  GARDEN. 

PANTOMIME.) 

February  25,  1867. 
There  is  this  great  advantage  in  the  writing  real  letters, 
that  the  direct  correspondence  is  a  sufficient  reason  for  say- 
ing, in  or  out  of  order,  everything  that  the  chances  of  the 
day  bring  into  one's  head,  in  connection  with  the  matter  in 
hand  ;  and  as  such  things  very  usually  go  out  of  one's  head 
again,  after  they  get  tired  of  their  lodging,  they  would  other- 
wise never  get  said  at  all.  And  thus  to-day,  quite  out  of 
order,  but  in  very  close  connection  with  another  part  of  our 
subject,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  what  I  was  thinking  on  Friday 
evening  last,  in  Coven t  Garden  Theatre,  as  I  was  looking, 
and  not  laughing,  at  the  pantomime  of  Ali  Baba  and  the  Forty 
Thieves. 

When  you  begin  seriously  to  consider  the  question  referred 
to  in  my  second  letter,  of  the  essential,  and  in  the  outcome 
inviolable,  connection  between  quantity  of  wages  and  quan- 
tity of  work,  you  will  see  that  "  wages"  in  the  full  sense  don't 
mean  "  pay  "  merely,  but  the  reward,  whatever  it  may  be,  of 
pleasure  as  well  as  profit,  and  of  various  other  advantages, 
which  a  man  is  meant  by  Providence  to  get  during  life,  for 
work  well  done.  Even  limiting  the  idea  to  "pay,"  the  ques- 
tion is  not  so  much  what  quantity  of  coin  you  get,  as — what 
you  can  get  for  it  when  you  have  it.  Whether  a  shilling  a 
day  be  good  pay  or  not,  depends  wholly  on  what  a  "  shilling's 
worth  "  is  ;  that  is  to  say,  what  quantity  of  the  things  you 
want  may  be  had  for  a  shilling.  And  that  again  depends  on 
what  you  do  want ;  and  a  great  deal  more  than  that  depends, 
besides,  on  "  what  you  want."    If  you  want  only  drink,  and 


138 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


foul  clothes,  such  and  such  pay  may  be  enough  for  you  ;  if 
you  want  good  meat  and  good  clothes,  you  must  have  larger 
wage  ;  if  clean  rooms  and  fresh  air,  larger  still,  and  so  on. 
You  say,  perhaps,  "  every  one  wants  bett  er  things."  So  far 
from  that,  a  wholesome  taste  for  cleanliness  and  fresh  air  is 
one  of  the  final  attainments  of  humanity.  'There  are  now  not 
many  European  gentlemen,  even  in  the  highest  classes,  who 
have  a  pure  and  right  love  of  fresh  air.  They  would  put  the 
filth  of  tobacco  even  into  the  first  breeze  of  a  May  morning. 

But  there  are  better  things  even  than  these,  which  one  may 
want.  Grant,  that  one.  has  good  food,  clothes,  lodging,  and 
breathing,  is  that  all  the  pay  one  ought  to  have  for  one's 
work?  Wholesome  means  of  existence,  and  nothing  more  ? 
"Enough,  perhaps,  you  think,  if  everybody  could  get  these.  It 
may  be  so  ;  I  will  not,  at  this  moment,  dispute  it ;  neverthe- 
less, I  will  boldly  say  that  you  should  sometimes  want  more 
than  these  :  and  for  one  of  many  things  more,  you  should 
want  occasionally  to  be  amused  ! 

You  know  the  upper  classes,  most  of  them,  want  to  be 
amused  all  day  long.    They  think 

"  One  moment  un  am  used  a  misery 
Not  made  for  feeble  men." 

Perhaps  you  have  been  in  the  habit  of  despising  them  for 
this ;  and  thinking  how  much  worthier  and  nobler  it  Avas  to 
work  all  day,  and  care  at  night  only  for  food  and  rest,  than  to 
do  no  useful  thing  all  day,  eat  unearned  food,  and  spend  the 
evening  as  the  morning,  in  "  change  of  follies  and  relays  of 
joy."  No,  my  good  friend,  that  is  one  of  the  fatallest  decep- 
tions. It  is  not  a  noble  thing,  in  sum  and  issue  of  it,  not  to 
care  to  be  amused.  It  is  indeed  a  far  higher  moral  state,  but 
it  is  a  much  lower  creature  state  than  that  of  the  upper  classes 

Yonder  poor  horse,  calm  slave  in  daily  chains  at  the  railroad 
siding,  who  drags  the  detached  rear  of  the  train  to  the  front 
again,  and  slips  aside  so  deftly  as  the  buffers  meet  ;  and,  within 
eighteen  inches  of  death  every  ten  minutes,  fulfils  his  dexterous 
and  changeless  duty  all  da}'  long,  content  for  eternal  reward 
with  his  night's  rest  and  his  champed  mouthful  of  bay  ; — any- 


ENTERTAINMENT. 


139 


thing  more  earnestly  moral  and  beautiful  one  cannot  imagine — 
I  never  see  the  creature  without  a  kind  of  worship.  And  yon- 
der musician,  who  used  the  greatest  power  which  (in  the  art 
he  knew)  the  Father  of  spirits  ever  yet  breathed  into  the  clay 
of  this  world  ; — who  used  it,  I  say,  to  foilowr  and  fit  with  per- 
fect sound  the  words  of  the  Zauherflbte  and  of  Don  Giovanni— 
basest  and  most  monstrous  of  conceivable  human  words  and 
subjects  of  thought — for  the  future  "  amusement "  of  his 
race  ! — No  such  spectacle  of  unconscious  (and  in  that  uncon- 
sciousness all  the  more  fearful)  moral  degradation  of  the 
highest  faculty  to  the  lowest  purpose  can  be  found  in  history. 
That  Mozart  is  nevertheless  a  nobler  creature  than  the  horse 
at  the  siding  ;  nor  would  it  be  the  least  nearer  the  purpose  of 
his  Maker  that  he,  and  all  his  frivolous  audiences,  should 
evade  the  degradation  of  the  profitless  piping,  only  by  living 
like  horses,  in  daily  physical  labour  for  daily  bread. 

There  are  three  things  to  which  man  is  born  1 — labour,  and 
sorrow,  and  joy.  Each  of  these  three  things  has  its  baseness 
and  its  nobleness,  There  is  base  labour,  and  noble  labour. 
There  is  base  sorrow,  and  noble  sorrow.  There  is  base  joy, 
and  noble  joy.  But  you  must  not  think  to  avoid  the  cor- 
ruption of  these  things  by  doing  without  the  things  them- 
selves. Nor  can  any  life  be  right  that  has  not  all  three. 
Labour  without  joy  is  base.  Labour  without  sorrow  is  base. 
Sorrow  without  labour  is  base.    Joy  without  labour  is  base. 

I  dare  say  you  think  I  am  a  long  time  in  coming  to  the 
pantomime  ;  I  am  not  ready  to  come  to  it  yet  in  due  course, 
for  we  ought  to  go  and  see  the  Japanese  jugglers  first,  in  order 
to  let  me  fully  explain  to  you  wrhat  I  mean.  But  I  can't  write 
much  more  to-day  ;  so  I  shall  merely  tell  you  w7hat  part  of 
the  play  set  me  thinking  of  all  this,  and  leave  you  to  consider 
of  it  yourself,  till  I  can  send  you  another  letter.  The  pan- 
tomime was,  as  I  said,  AH  Baba  and  the  Forty  Thieves.  The 
forty  thieves  were  girls.  The  forty  thieves  had  forty  com- 
panions, who  were  girls.  The  forty  thieves  and  their  forty 
companions  were  in  some  way  mixed  up  with  about  four  hun- 

1  1  ask  the  reader's  thoughtful  attention  to  this  paragraph,  on  which 
much  of  what  else  I  have  to  say  depends. 


140 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


clred  and  forty  fairies,  who  were  girls.  There  was  an  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  boat-race,  in  which  the  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge men  were  girls.  There  was  a  transformation  scene, 
with  a  forest,  in  which  the  flowers  were  girls,  and  a  chandelier, 
in  which  the  lamps  were  girls,  and  a  great  rainbow,  which 
was  all  of  girls. 

Mingled  incongruously  with  these  seraphic,  and,  as  far  as 
my  boyish  experience  extends,  novel,  elements  of  pantomime, 
there  were  yet  some  of  its  old  and  fast-expiring  elements. 
There  were,  in  speciality,  two  thoroughly  good  pantomime 
actors— Mr.  W.  H.  Payne  and  Mr.  Frederick  Payne.  All  that 
these  two  did,  was  done  admirably.  There  were  two  sub- 
ordinate actors,  who  played  subordinately  well,  the  fore  and 
hind  legs  of  a  donkey.  And  there  was  a  little  actress,  of 
whom  I  have  chiefly  to  speak,  who  played  exquisitely  the 
little  part  she  had  to  play.  The  scene  in  which  she  appeared 
was  the  only  one  in  the  whole  pantomime  in  which  there  was 
any  dramatic  effort,  or,  with  a  few  rare  exceptions,  any 
dramatic  possibility.  It  was  the  home  scene,  in  which  Ali 
Baba's  wife,  on  washing  day,  is  called  upon  by  butcher,  baker, 
and  milkman,  with  unpaid  bills ;  and  in  the  extremity  of  her 
distress  hears  her  husband's  knock  at  the  door,  and  opens  it 
for  him  to  drive  in  his  donkey,  laden  with  gold.  The  chil- 
dren, who  have  been  beaten  instead  of  getting  breakfast, 
presently  share  in  the  raptures  of  their  father  and  mother ; 
and  the  little  lady  I  spoke  of — eight  or  nine  years  old — dances 
a  pas-de-deux  with  the  donkey. 

She  did  it  beautifully  and  simply,  as  a  child  ought  to  dance. 
She  was  not  an  infant  prodigy ;  there  was  no  evidence,  in  the 
finish  or  strength  of  her  motion,  that  she  had  been  put  to 
continual  torture  through  half  her  eight  or  nine  years.  She 
did  nothing  more  than  any  child,  well  taught,  but  painlessly, 
might  easily  do.  She  caricatured  no  older  person, — attempted 
no  curious  or  fantastic  skill.  She  was  dressed  decently, — 
she  moved  decently, — she  looked  and  behaved  innocently, — 
and  she  danced  her  joyful  dance  with  perfect  grace,  spirit, 
sweetness,  and  self-forgetfulness.  And  through  all  the  vast 
theatre,  full  of  English  fathers  and  mothers  and  children, 


DEXTERITY. 


141 


there  was  not  one  hand  lifted  to  give  her  sign  of  praise  bat 
mine. 

Presently  after  this,  came  on  the  forty  thieves,  who,  as  1 
told  you,  were  girls  ;  and,  there  being  no  thieving  to  be  pres- 
ently done,  and  time  hanging  heavy  on  their  hands,  arms,  and 
legs,  the  forty  thief-girls  proceeded  to  light  forty  cigars. 
Whereupon  the  British  public  gave  them  a  round  of  applausa 
Whereupon  I  fell  a-thinking ;  and  saw  little  more  of  the  piece, 
except  as  an  ugly  and  disturbing  dream. 


LETTEE  VI. 

THE  CORRUPTION  OF  MODERN  PLEASURE.  — (THE  JAPANESE  JUGGLERS. ) 

February  28,  1867. 

I  have  your  pleasant  letter  with  references  to  Frederick.  I 
w7ill  look  at  them  carefully.1  Mr.  Carlyle  himself  will  be 
pleased  to  hear  this  letter  wThen  he  comes  home.  I  heard  from 
him  last  week  at  Mentone.  He  is  well,  and  glad  of  the  light 
and  calm  of  Italy.  I  must  get  back  to  the  evil  light,  and  un- 
calm,  of  the  places  I  was  taking  you  through. 

(Parenthetically,  did  you  see  the  article  in  TJie  Times  of  yes- 
terday on  bribery,  and  the  conclusion  of  the  commission — 
"  No  one  sold  any  opinions,  for  no  one  had  any  opinions  to 
sell.") 

Both  on  Thursday  and  Friday  last  I  had  been  tormented  by 
many  things,  and  wranted  to  disturb  my  course  of  thought 
any  way  I  could.  I  have  told  you  what  entertainment  I  got 
on  Friday,  first,  for  it  was  then  that  I  began  meditating  over 
these  letters  ;  let  me  tell  you  now  what  entertainment  I  found 
on  Thursday. 

You  may  have  heard  that  a  company  of  Japanese  jugglers 
has  come  over  to  exhibit  in  London.  There  has  long  been  an 
increasing  interest  in  Japanese  art,  which  has  been  very  harm- 
ful to  many  of  our  own  painters,  and  I  greatly  desired  to  see 

1  Appendix  II. 


142 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


what  these  people  were,  and  what  they  did.  Well,  I  have 
Keen  Blondin,  and  various  English  and  French  circus  work, 
but  never  yet  anything  that  surprised  me  so  much  as  one  of 
these  men's  exercises  on  a  suspended  pole.  Its  special  char- 
acter was  a  close  approximation  to  the  action  and  power  of 
the  monkey,  even  to  the  prehensile  power  in  the  foot  ;  so  that 
I  asked  a  sculptor-friend  who  sat  in  front  of  me,  whether  he 
thought  such  a  grasp  could  be  acquired  by  practice,  or  indi- 
cated difference  in  race.  He  said  he  thought  it  might  be  got 
by  practice.  There  was  also  much  inconceivably  dexterous 
work  in  spinning  of  tops — making  them  pass  in  balanced  mo- 
tion along  the  edge  of  a  sword,  and » along  a  level  string,  and 
the  like  ; — the  father  performing  in  the  presence  of  his  two 
children,  who  encouraged  him  continually  with  short,  sharp 
cries,  like  those  of  animals.  Then  there  was  some  fairly  good 
sleight-of-hand  juggling  of  little  interest ;  ending  with  a  dance 
by  the  juggler,  first  as  an  animal,  and  then  as  a  goblin.  Now, 
there  was  this  great  difference  between  the  Japanese  masks 
used  in  this  dance  and  our  common  pantomime  masks  for 
beasts  and  demons, — that  our  English  masks  are  only  stupidly 
and  loathsomely  ugly,  by  exaggeration  of  feature,  or  of  de- 
fect of  feature.  But  the  Japanese  masks  (like  the  frequent 
monsters  of  Japanese  art)  were  inventively  frightful,  like  fear- 
ful dreams  ;  and  whatever  power  it  is  that  acts  on  human 
minds,  enabling  them  to  invent  such,  appears  to  me  not  only 
to  deserve  the  term  "  demoniacal,"  as  the  only  word  expres- 
sive of  its  character ;  but  to  be  logically  capable  of  no  other 
definition. 

The  impression,  therefore,  produced  upon  me  by  the  whole 
scene,  was  that  of  being  in  the  presence  of  human  creatures 
of  a  partially  inferior  race,  but  not  without  great  human  gen- 
tleness, domestic  affection,  and  ingenious  intellect ;  who  were, 
nevertheless,  as  a  nation,  afflicted  by  an  evil  spirit,  and  driven 
by  it  to  recreate  themselves  in  achieving,  or  beholding  the 
achievement,  through  years  of  patience,  of  a  certain  corre- 
spondence with  the  nature  of  the  lower  animals. 

These,  then,  were  the  two  forms  of  diversion  or  recreation 
of  my  mind  possible  to  me,  in  two  days  when  I  needed  such 


FESTIVITY. 


143 


help,  in  this  metropolis  of  England.  I  might,  as  a  rich  man, 
have  had  better  music,  if  I  had  so  chosen,  though,  even  so. 
not  rational  or  helpful ;  but  a  poor  man  could  only  have 
these,  or  worse  than  these,  if  he  cared  for  any  manner  of  spec- 
tacle. (I  am  not  at  present,  observe,  speaking  of  pure  acting, 
■which  is  a  study,  and  recreative  only  as  a  noble  book  is ;  but 
of  means  of  mere  amusement.) 

Now,  lastly,  in  illustration  of  the  effect  of  these  and  other 
such  "  amusements,"  and  of  the  desire  to  obtain  them,  on  the 
minds  of  our  youth,  read  The  Times  correspondent's  letter 
from  Paris,  in  the  tenth  page  of  the  paper,  to-day  ; 1  and  that 
will  be  quite  enough  for  you  to  read,  for  the  present,  I  believe. 


LETTER  VII. 

OF  THE   VARIOUS  EXPRESSIONS  OF  NATIONAL  FESTIVITY. 

March  4,  1867. 

The  subject  which  I  want  to  bring  before  you  is  now 
branched,  and,  worse  than  branched,  reticulated,  in  so  many 
directions,  that  I  hardly  know  which  shoot  of  it  to  trace,  or 
which  knot  to  lay  hold  of  first. 

I  had  intended  to  return  to  those  Japanese  jugglers,  after  a 
visit  to  a  theatre  in  Paris  ;  but  I  had  better,  perhaps,  at  once 
tell  you  the  piece  of  the  performance  which,  in  connection 
with  the  scene  in  the  English  pantomime,  bears  most  on  mat- 
ters in  hand. 

It  was  also  a  dance  by  a  little  girl — though  one  older  than 
Ali  Baba's  daughter  (I  suppose  a  girl  of  twelve  or  fourteen.) 
A  dance,  so  called,  which  consisted  only  in  a  series  of  short, 
sharp  contractions  and  jerks  of  the  body  and  limbs,  resulting 
in  attitudes  of  distorted  and  quaint  ugliness,  such  as  might 
be  produced  in  a  puppet  by  sharp  twitching  of  strings  at  its 
joints  ;  these  movements  being  made  to  the  sound  of  two  in- 
struments, which  between  them  accomplished  only  a  quick 
vibratory  beating  and  strumming,  in  nearly  the  time  of  a 
hearth-cricket's  song,  but  much  harsher,  and  of  course  louder, 
1  Appendix  III. 


144 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


and  without  any  sweetness ;  only  in  the  monotony  and  unin- 
tended aimless  construction  of  it,  reminding  one  of  various 
other  insect  and  reptile  cries  or  warnings  ;  partly  of  the 
cicala's  hiss ;  partly  of  the  little  melancholy  German  frog 
which  says  "  Mu,  mu,  mu,"  all  summer-day  long,  with  its  nose 
out  of  the  pools  by  Dresden  and  Leipsic  ;  and  partly  of  the 
deadened  quivering  and  intense  continuousness  of  the  alarm 
of  the  rattlesnake. 

While  this  was  going  on,  there  was  a  Bible  text  repeating 
itself  over  and  over  again  in  my  head,  whether  I  would  or  no  : 
- — "And  Miriam  the  prophetess,  the  sister  of  Aaron,  took  a 
timbrel  in  her  hand,  and  all  the  women  went  out  after  her 
with  timbrels  and  with  dances."  To  which  text  and  some 
others,  I  shall  ask  your  attention  presently  ;  but  I  must  go  to 
Paris  first. 

Not  at  once,  however,  to  the  theatre,  but  to  a  bookseller's 
shop,  No.  4,  Bue  Voltaire,  where,  in  the  year  1858,  was  pub- 
lished the  fifth  edition  of  Balzac's  Corites  Drolatiqnes,  illus- 
trated by  425  designs  by  Gustave  Dore. 

Both  text  and  illustrations  are  as  powerful  as  it  is  ever  in 
the  nature  of  evil  things  to  be — (there  is  no  final  strength  but 
in  rightness.)  Nothing  more  witty,  nor  more  inventively  hor- 
rible, has  yet  been  produced  in  the  evil  literature,  or  by  the 
evil  art,  of  man ;  nor  can  I  conceive  it  possible  to  go  beyond 
either  in  their  specialities  of  corruption.  The  text  is  full  of 
blasphemies,  subtle,  tremendous,  hideous  in  shamelessness, 
some  put  into  the  mouths  of  priests  ;  the  illustrations  are,  in 
a  wTord,  one  continuous  revelry  in  the  most  loathsome  and 
monstrous  aspects  of  death  and  sin,  enlarged  into  fantastic 
ghastliness  of  caricature,  as  if  seen  through  the  distortion  and 
trembling  of  the  hot  smoke  of  the  mouth  of  hell.  Take  this 
following  for  a  general  type  of  what  they  seek  in  death :  one 
of  the  most  laboured  designs  is  of  a  man  cut  in  two,  down- 
wards, by  the  sweep  of  a  sword — one-half  of  him  falls  towards 
the  spectator ;  the  other  half  is  elaborately  drawn  in  its  sec- 
tion— giving  the  profile  of  the  divided  nose  and  lips ;  cleft 
jaw — breast — and  entrails  ;  and  this  is  done  with  farther  pol- 
lution and  horror  of  intent  in  the  circumstances,  whicL  I  do 


THINGS  WRITTEN. 


1*5 


not  choose  to  describe — still  less  some  other  of  .the  designs 
■which  seek  for  fantastic  extreme  of  sin,  as  this  for  the  utmost 
horror  of  death.  But  of  all  the  425,  there  is  not  one  which 
does  not  violate  every  instinct  of  decency  and  law  of  virtue  or 
life,  written  in  the  human  soul. 

Now,  my  friend,  among  the  many  "Signs  of  the  Times" 
the  production  of  a  book  like  this  is  a  significant  one  :  but  it 
becomes  more  significant  still  when  connected  with  the  farther 
fact,  that  M.  Gustave  Dore^  the  designer  of  this  series  of 
plates,  has  just  been  received  with  loud  acclaim  by  the  Brit- 
ish Evangelical  Public,  as  the  fittest  and  most  able  person 
whom  they  could  at  present  find  to  illustrate,  to  their  minds, 
and  recommend  with  graciousness,  of  sacred  art,  their  hith- 
erto unadorned  Bible  for  them. 

Of  which  Bible  and  of  the  use  we  at  present  make  of  it  in 
England,  having  a  grave  word  ov  two  to  say  in  my  next  letter 
(preparatory  to  the  examination  of  that  verse  which  haunted 
me  through  the  Japanese  juggling,  and  of  some  others  also), 
I  leave  you  first  this  sign  of  the  public  esteem  of  it  to  consider 
at  your  leisure. 


LETTER  VIII. 

THE  FOUR  POSSIBLE  THEORIES  RESPECTING  THE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE 

BIBLE. 

March  7,  1867. 

I  have  your  yesterday's  letter,  but  must  not  allow  myself  to 
be  diverted  from  the  business  in  hand  for  this  once,  for  it  is 
the  most  important  of  which  I  have  to  write  to  you. 

You  must  have  seen  long  ago  that  the  essential  difference 
between  the  political  economy  I  am  trying  to  teach,  and  the 
popular  science,  is,  that  mine  is  based  on  presumably  attain- 
able honesty  in  men,  and  conceivable  respect  in  them  for  the 
interests  of  others,  while  the  popular  science  founds  itself 
wholly  on  their  supposed  constant  regard  for  their  own,  and 
on  their  honesty  only  so  far  as  thereby  likely  to  be  secured. 

It  becomes,  therefore,  for  me,  and  for  all  who  believe  any- 


14G 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


thing  I  say,  ji  great  primal  question  on  what  this  presumably 
attainable  honesty  is  to  be  based. 

"Is  it  to  be  based  on  religion?"  you  may  ask.  "Are  we 
to  be  honest  for  fear  of  losing  heaven  if  we  are  dishonest,  or 
(to  put  it  as  generously  as  we  may)  for  fear  of  displeasing 
God?  Or,  are  we  to  be  honest  on  speculation,  because  hon- 
esty is  the  best  policy ;  and  to  invest  in  virtue  as  in  an  un- 
depreciable  stock  ?  " 

And  my  answer  is — not  in  any  hesitating  or  diffident  way 
(and  you  know,  my  friend,  that  whatever  people  may  say  of 
me,  I  often  do  speak  diffidently  ;  though  when  I  am  diffident 
of  things,  I  like  to  avoid  speaking  of  them,  if  it  may  be  ;  but 
here  I  say  with  no  shadow  of  doubt) — your  honesty  is  not  to 
be  based  either  on  religion  or  policy.  Both  your  religion  and 
policy  must  be  based  on  it.  Your  honesty  must  be  based,  as 
the  sun  is,  in  vacant  heaven  ;  poised,  as  the  lights  in  the  firm- 
ament, which  have  rule  over  the  day  and  over  the  night.  If 
you  ask  why  you  are  to  be  honest — you  are,  in  the  question 
itself,  dishonoured.  "Because  you  are  a  man,"  is  the  only 
answer  ;  and  therefore  I  said  in  a  former  letter  that  to  make 
your  children  capable  of  honesty  is  the  beginning  of  education. 
Make  them  men  first,  and  religious  men  afterwards,  and  all 
will  be  sound  ;  but  a  knave's  religion  is  always  the  rottenest 
thing  about  him. 

It  is  not,  therefore,  because  I  am  endeavouring  to  lay  down 
a  foundation  of  religious  concrete  on  which  to  build  piers  of 
policy,  that  you  so  often  find  me  quoting  Bible  texts  in  de- 
fence of  this  or  that  principle  or  assertion.  But  the  fact  that 
such  references  are  an  offence,  as  I  know  them  to  be,  to  many 
of  the  readers  of  these  political  essays,  is  one  among  many 
others,  which  I  would  desire  you  to  reflect  upon  (whether  you 
are  yourself  one  of  the  offended  or  not),  as  expressive  of  the 
singular  position  which  the  mind  of  the  British  public  has  at 
present  taken  with  respect  to  its  worshipped  Book.  The  posi- 
tions, honestly  tenable,  before  I  use  any  more  of  its  texts,  I 
must  try  to  define  for  you. 

All  the  theories  possible  to  theological  disputants  respecting 
the  Bible  are  resolvable  into  four,  and  four  only. 


THINGS  WRITTEN. 


147 


1.  The  first  is  that  of  the  comparatively  illiterate  modern 
religious  world,  namely,  that  every  word  of  the  book  known 
to  them  as  "  The  Bible  "  was  dictated  by  the  Supreme  Being, 
and  is  in  every  syllable  of  it  His  "  Word."  This  theory  is  of 
course  tenable,  though  honestly,  yet  by  no  ordinarily  well- 
educated  person. 

2.  The  second  theory  is,  that  although  admitting  verbal 
error,  the  substance  of  the  whole  collection  of  books  called  the 
Bible  is  absolutely  true,  and  furnished  to  man  by  Divine  in- 
spiration of  the  speakers  and  writers  of  it ;  and  that  every  one 
who  honestly  and  prayerfully  seeks  for  such  truth  in  it  as  is 
necessary  for  salvation,  will  infallibly  find  it  there. 

This  theory  is  that  held  by  most  of  our  good  and  upright 
clergymen,  and  the  better  class  of  the  professedly  religious 
laity. 

3.  The  third  theory  is  that  the  group  of  books  which  we 
call  the  Bible  were  neither  written  nor  collected  under  any 
Divine  guidance,  securing  them  from  substantial  error  ;  and 
that  they  contain,  like  all  other  human  writings,  false  state- 
ments mixed  with  true,  and  erring  thoughts  mixed  with  just 
thoughts  ;  but  that  they  nevertheless  relate,  on  the  whole, 
faithfully,  the  dealings  of  the  one  God  with  the  first  races  of 
man,  and  His  dealings  with  them  in  aftertime  through  Christ ; 
that  they  record  true  miracles,  and  bear  true  witness  to  the 
resurrection  of  the  dead,  and  the  life  of  the  world  to  come. 

This  is  a  theory  held  by  many  of  the  active  leaders  of  mod- 
ern thought  in  England. 

4.  The  fourth,  and  last  possible  theory  is  that  the  mass  of 
religious  Scripture  contains  merely  the  best  efforts  which  we 
hitherto  know  to  have  been  made  by  any  of  the  races  of  men 
towards  the  discovery  of  some  relations  with  the  spiritual 
world  ;  that  they  are  only  trustworthy  as  expressions  of  the  en- 
thusiastic visions  or  beliefs  of  earnest  men  oppressed  by  the 
world's  darkness,  and  have  no  more  authoritative  claim  on 
our  faith  than  the  religious  speculations  and  histories  of  the 
Egyptians,  Greeks,  Persians,  and  Indians  ;  but  are,  in  common 
with  all  these,  to  be  reverently  studied,  as  containing  the  best 
wisdom  which  human  intellect,  earnestly  seeking  for  help  from 


148 


TIME  AND  TIDfrl 


God,  has  hitherto  been  able  to  gather  between  birth  and 
death. 

This  has  been,  for  the  last  half  century,  the  theory  of  the 
leading  scholars  and  thinkers  of  Europe. 

There  is  yet  indeed  one  farther  condition  of  incredulity  at- 
tainable, and  sorrowfully  attained,  by  many  men  of  power- 
ful intellect — the  incredulity,  namely,  of  inspiration  in  any 
sense,  or  of  help  given  by  any  Divine  power,  to  the  thoughts 
of  men.  But  this  form  of  infidelity  merely  indicates  a  natu- 
ral incapacity  for  receiving  certain  emotions ;  though  many 
honest  and  good  men  belong  to  this  insentient  class. 

The  educated  men,  therefore,  who  may  be  seriously  ap- 
pealed to,  in  these  days,  on  questions  of  moral  responsibility, 
as  modified  by  Scripture,  are  broadly  divisible  into  three 
classes,  severally  holding  the  three  last  theories  above  stated. 

Now,  whatever  power  a  passage  from  the  steadily  authori- 
tative portions  of  the  Bible  may  have  over  the  mind  of  a  per- 
son holding  the  fourth  theory,  it  will  have  a  proportionately 
greater  over  that  of  persons  holding  the  third  or  the  second. 
I,  therefore,  always  imagine  myself  speaking  to  the  fourth 
class  of  theorists.  If  I  can  persuade  or  influence  them,  I  am 
logically  sure  of  the  others.  I  say  "  logically,'*  for  in  the  act- 
ual fact,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  no  persons  are  so  little  likely 
to  submit  to  a  passage  of  Scripture  not  to  their  liking,  as 
those  who  are  most  positive  on  the  subject  of  its  general  in- 
spiration. 

Addressing,  then,  this  fourth  class  of  thinkers,  I  would  say 
to  them,  when  asking  them  to  enter  on  any  subject  of  import- 
ance to  national  morals,  or  conduct,  "This  book,  which  has 
been  the  accepted  guide  of  the  moral  intelligence  of  Europe 
for  some  1,500  years,  enforces  certain  simple  laws  of  human 
conduct  which  you  know  have  also  been  agreed  upon  in  every 
main  point  by  all  the  religious  and  by  all  the  greatest  profane 
writers,  of  every  age  and  country.  This  book  primarily  for- 
bids pride,  lasciviousness,  and  covetousness  ;  and  you  know, 
that  all  great  thinkers,  in  every  nation  of  mankind,  have  simi- 
larly forbade  these  mortal  vices.  This  book  enjoins  truth, 
temperance,  charity,  and  equity  ;  and  you  know  that  every 


THANKSGIVING. 


149 


great  Egyptian,  Greek,  and  Indian,  enjoins  these  also.  You 
know  besides,  that  through  all  the  mysteries  of  human  fate 
and  history,  this  one  great  law  of  fate  is  written  on  the 
walls  of  cities,  or  in  their  dust, — written  in  letters  of  light 
or  in  letters  of  blood, — that  where  truth,  temperance,  and 
equity  have  been  preserved,  all  strength,  and  peace,  and 
joy  have  been  preserved  also  ; — that  where  lying,  lascivi- 
ousness,  and  covetousness  have  been  practised,  there  has 
followed  an  infallible,  and  for  centuries  irrecoverable,  ruin. 
And  you  know,  lastly,  that  the  observance  of  this  common 
law  of  righteousness,  commending  itself  to  all  the  pure  in- 
stincts of  men,  and  fruitful  in  their  temporal  good,  is  by  the 
religious  writers  of  every  nation,  and  chiefly  in  this  venerated 
Scripture  of  ours,  connected  with  some  distinct  hope  of  bet- 
ter life,  and  righteousness,  to  come. 

"  Let  it  not  then  offend  you  if,  deducing  principles  of  action 
first  from  the  laws  and  facts  of  nature,  I  nevertheless  fortify 
them  also  by  appliance  of  the  precepts,  or  suggestive  and 
probable  teachings  of  this  Book,  of  which  the  authority  is  over 
many  around  you,  more  distinctly  than  over  you,  and  which, 
confessing  to  be  divine,  they,  at  least,  can  only  disobey  at  their 
moral  peril." 

On  these  grounds,  and  in  this  temper,  I  am  in  the  habit  of 
appealing  to  passages  of  Scripture  in  my  writings  on  political 
economy  ;  and  in  this  temper  I  will  ask  you  to  consider  with 
me  some  conclusions  which  appear  to  me  derivable  from  that 
text  about  Miriam,  which  haunted  me  through  the  jugglery  ; 
and  from  certain  others. 


LETTER  IX. 

THE  USE  OF    MUSIC  AND    DANCING    UNDER  THE  JEWISH  THEOCRACY, 
COMPARED  WITH  THEIR  USE  BY  THE  MODERN  FRENCH. 

March  10,  18G7. 

Having,  I  hope,  made  you  now  clearly  understand  with  what 
feeling  I  would  use  the  authority  of  the  book  which  the  Brit- 


150 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


ish  public,  professing  to  consider  sacred,  have  lately  adorned 
for  themselves  with  the  work  of  the  boldest  violator  of  the  in- 
stincts of  human  honour  and  decency  known  yet  in  art-history, 
I  will  pursue  by  the  help  of  that  verse  about  Miriam,  and 
some  others,  the  subject  which  occupied  my  mind  at  both 
theatres,  and  to  which,  though  in  so  apparently  desultory 
manner,  I  have  been  nevertheless  very  earnestly  endeavouring 
to  lead  you. 

The  going  forth  of  the  women  of  Israel  after  Miriam,  with 
timbrels  and  with  dances,  was,  as  you  doubtless  remember, 
their  expression  of  passionate  triumph  and  thankfulness,  after 
the  full  accomplishment  of  their  deliverance  from  the  Egyp- 
tians. That  deliverance  had  been  by  the  utter  death  of  their 
enemies,  and  accompanied  by  stupendous  miracle  ;  no  human 
creatures  could  in  an  hour  of  triumph  be  surrounded  by  cir- 
cumstances more  solemn.  I  am  not  going  to  try  to  excite 
your  feelings  about  them.  Consider  only  for  yourself  what 
-that  seeing  of  the  Egyptians  "  dead  upon  the  sea-shore " 
meant  to  every  soul  that  saw  it.  And  then  reflect  that  these 
intense  emotions  of  mingled  horror,  triumph,  and  gratitude 
were  expressed,  in  the  visible  presence  of  the  Deity,  by  music 
and  dancing.  If  you  answer  that  you  do  not  believe  the 
Egyptians  so  perished,  or  that  God  ever  appeared  in  a  pillar 
of  cloud,  I  reply,  "Be  it  so — believe  or  disbelieve,  as  you 
choose  ; — This  is  yet  assuredly  the  fact,  that  the  author  of  the 
poem  or  fable  of  the  Exodus  supposed  that  under  such  cir- 
cumstances of  Divine  interposition  as  he-  had  invented,  the 
triumph  of  the  Israelitish  women  would  have  been,  and  ought 
to  have  been,  under  the  direction  of  a  prophetess,  expressed 
by  music  and  dancing. " 

Nor  was  it  possible  that  he  should  think  otherwise,  at  what- 
ever period  he  wrote  ;  both  music  and  dancing  being  among 
ail  great  ancient  nations  an  appointed  and  very  principal  part 
of  the  worship  of  the  gods. 

And  that  very  theatrical  entertainment  at  which  I  sate  think- 
ing over  these  things  for  you — that  pantomime,  which 
depended  throughout  for  its  success  on  an  appeal  to  the  vices 
of  the  lower  London  populace,  was  in  itself  nothing  but  a  cor- 


THANKSGIVING. 


151 


rupt  remnant  of  the  religious  ceremonies  which  guided  the 
most  serious  faiths  of  the  Greek  mind,  and  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  their  gravest  moral  and  didactic — more  forcibly  so 
because  at  the  same  time  dramatic — literature.  Keturning  to 
the  Jewish  history,  you  find  soon  afterwards  this  enthusiastic 
religious  dance  and  song  employed  in  their  more  common  and 
habitual  manner,  in  the  idolatries  under  Sinai  ;  but  beautifully 
again  and  tenderly,  after  the  triumph  of  Jephthah,  "And  be- 
hold his  daughter  came  out  to  meet  him  with  timbrels  and  with 
dances."  Again,  still  more  notably  at  the  triumph  of  David 
with  Saul,  "the  women  came  out  of  all  the  cities  of  Israel  sing- 
ing and  dancing,  to  meet  King  Saul  with  tabrets,  with  joy, 
and  with  instruments  of  music."  And  you  have  this  joyful 
song  and  dance  of  the  virgins  of  Israel  not  only  incidentally 
alluded  to  in  the  most  solemn  passages  of  Hebrew  religious 
poetry  (as  in  Psalm  lxviii.,  24,  25,  and  Psalm  cxlix.,  2,  3),  but 
approved,  and  the  restoration  of  it  promised  as  a  sign  of 
God's  perfect  blessing,  most  earnestly  by  the  saddest  of  the 
Hebrew  prophets,  and  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  his 
sayings. 

"  The  Lord  hath  appeared  of  old  unto  me  saying,  1  Yea,  I 
have  loved  thee  with  an  everlasting  love.  Therefore,,  with 
loving-kindness  have  I  drawn  thee. — I  will  build  thee,  and 
thou  shalt  be  built,  O  Virgin  of  Israel  ;  thou  shalt  again  be 
adorned  with  thy  tabrets,  and  shalt  go  forth  in  the  dances 
with  them  that  make  merry ' "  (Jerem.  xxxi.,  3,  4  ;  and  com- 
pare v.  13).  And  finally,  you  have  in  two  of  quite  the  most 
important  passages  in  the  whole  series  of  Scripture  (one  in 
the  Old  Testament,  one  in  the  New),  the  rejoicing  in  the  re- 
pentance from,  and  remission  of  sins,  expressed  by  means  of 
music  and  dancing,  namely,  in  the  rapturous  dancing  of 
David  before  the  returning  ark  ;  and  in  the  joy  of  the 
Father's  household  at  the  repentance  of  the  prodigal  son. 

I  could  put  all  this  much  better  and  more  convincingly 
before  you,  if  I  were  able  to  take  any  pains  in  writing  at 
present ;  but  I  am  not,  as  I  told  you  ;  being  weary  and  ill  ; 
neither  do  I  much  care  now  to  use  what,  in  the  very  truth, 
are  but  tricks  of  literary  art,  in  dealing  with  this  so  grave 


152 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


subject.  You  see  I  write  you  my  letter  straightforward,  and 
let  you  see  all  my  scratchings  out  and  puttings  in  ;  and  if  the 
way  I  say  things  shocks  you,  or  any  other  reader  of  these 
letters,  I  cannot  help  it;  this  only  I  know,  that  what  I  tell 
you  is  true,  and  written  more  earnestly  than  anything  I  ever 
wrote  with  my  best  literary  care  ;  and  that  you  will  find  it 
useful  to  think  upon,  however  it  be  said.  Now,  therefore,  to 
draw  towards  our  conclusion.  Supposing  the  Bible  inspired, 
in  any  of  the  senses  above  defined,  you  have  in  these  passages 
a  positively  Divine  authority  for  the  use  of  song  and  dance, 
as  a  means  of  religious  service,  and  expression  of  national 
thanksgiving.  Supposing  it  not  inspired,  you  have  (taking 
the  passages  for  as  slightly  authoritative  as  you  choose)  rec- 
ord in  them,  nevertheless,  of  a  state  of  mind  in  a  great  nation 
producing  the  most  beautiful  religious  poetry  and  perfect 
moral  law  hitherto  known  to  us,  yet  only  expressible  by  them, 
to  the  fulfilment  of  their  joyful  passion,  by  means  of  proces- 
sional dance  and  choral  song. 

Now  I  want  you  to  contrast  this  state  of  religious  rapture 
with  some  of  our  modern  phases  of  mind  in  parallel  circum- 
stances. You  see  that  the  promise  of  Jeremiah's,  "Thou 
shalt  go  forth  in  the*  dances  of  them  that  make  merry,"  is  im~ 
mediately  followed  by  this,  "  Thou  shalt  yet  plant  vines  upon 
the  mountains  of  Samaria."  And  again,  at  the  yearly  feast  to 
the  Lord  in  Shiloh,  the  dancing  of  the  virgins  was  in  the 
midst  of  the  vineyards  (Judges  xxi.,  21),  the  feast  of  the 
vintage  being  in  the  south,  as  our  harvest-home  in  the  north, 
a  peculiar  occasion  of  joy  and  thanksgiving.  I  happened  to 
pass  the  autumn  of  1863  in  one  of  the  great  vine  districts  of 
Switzerland,  under  the  slopes  of  the  outlying  branch  of  the 
Jura  which  limits  the  arable  plain  of  the  Canton  Zurich,  some 
fifteen  miles  north  of  Zurich  itself.  That  city  has  always  been 
a  renowned  stronghold  of  Swiss  Protestantism,  next  in  im- 
portance only  to  Geneva  ;  and  its  evangelical  zeal  for  the  con- 
version of  the  Catholics  of  Uri,  and  endeavours  to  bring  about 
that  spiritual  result  by  stopping  the  supplies  of  salt  they 
needed  to  make  their  cheeses  with,  brought  on  (the  Uri  men 
reading  their  Matt.  v.  13,  in  a  different  sense)  the  battle  of 


THANKSGIVING. 


153 


Keppel,  and  the  death  of  the  reformer,  Zwinglitis.  The  town 
itself  shows  the  most  gratifying  signs  of  progress  in  all  the 
modern  arts  and  sciences  of  life.  It  is  nearly  as  black  as 
Newcastle — has  a  railroad  station  larger  than  the  London 
terminus  of  the  Chatham  and  Dover — fouls  the  stream  of  the 
Limmat  as  soon  as  it  issues  from  the  lake,  so  that  you  might 
even  venture  to  compare  the  formerly  simple  and  innocent 
Swiss  river  (I  remember  it  thirty  years  ago — a  current  of  pale 
green  crystal)  with  the  highly  educated  English  streams  of 
Weare  or  Tyne  ;  and,  finally,  has  as  many  French  prints  of 
dissolute  tendency  in  its  principal  shop  windows,  as  if  they 
had  the  privilege  of  opening  on  the  Parisian  Boulevards.  I 
was  somewhat  anxious  to  see  what  species  of  thanksgiving  or 
exultation  would  be  expressed,  at  their  vintage,  by  the  peas- 
antry in  the  neighbourhood  of  this  much  enlightened  evan- 
gelical and  commercial  society.  It  consisted  in  two  cere- 
monies only.  During  the  day,  the  servants  of  the  farms 
where  the  grapes  had  been  gathered,  collected  in  knots  about 
the  vineyards,  and  slowly  fired  horse-pistols,  from  morning  to 
evening.  At  night  they  got  drunk,  and  staggered  up  and 
down  the  hill  paths,  uttering  at  short  intervals  yells  and 
shrieks,  differing  only  from  the  howling  of  wild  animals  by  a 
certain  intended  and  insolent  discordance,  only  attainable  by 
the  malignity  of  debased  human  creatures.  1  must  not  do 
the  injustice  to  the  Zurich  peasantry  of  implying  that  this 
manner  of  festivity  is  peculiar  to  them.  A  year  before,  in 
1862,  I  had  formed  the  intention  of  living  some  years  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Geneva,  and  had  established  myself  ex- 
perimentally on  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Mont  Saleve  ;  but  I 
was  forced  to  abandon  my  purpose  at  last,  because  I  could 
not  endure  the  rabid  howling,  on  Sunday  evenings,  of  the 
holiday-makers  who  came  out  from  Geneva  to  get  drunk  in 
the  mountain  village.  By  the  way,  your  last  letter,  with,  its 
extracts  about  our  traffic  in  gin,  is  very  valuable.  I  will  come 
to  that  part  of  the  business  in  a  little  while.  Meantime,  my 
friend,  note  this,  respecting  what  I  have  told  you,  that  in  the 
very  centre  of  Europe,  in  a  country  which  is  visited  for  their 
chief  pleasure  by  the  most  refined  and  thoughtful  persons 


154 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


among  all  Christian  nations — a  country  made  by  GocVs  band 
the  most  beautiful  in  the  temperate  regions  of  the  earth,  and 
inhabited  by  a  race  once  capable  of  the  sternest  patriotism 
and  simplest  purity  of  life,  your  modern  religion,  in  the  very 
stronghold  of  it,  has  reduced  the  song  and  dance  of  ancient 
virginal  thanksgiving  to  the  howlings  and  staggerings  of  men 
betraying,  in  intoxication,  a  nature  sunk  more  than  half  way 
towards  the  beasts  ;  and  you  will  begin  to  understand  why 
the  Bible  should  have  been  "illustrated  "  by  Gustave  Dore. 

One  word  more  is  needful,  though  this  letter  is  long 
already.  The  peculiar  ghastliness  of -this  Swiss  mode  of  fes- 
tivity is  in  its  utter  failure  of  joy  ;  the  paralysis  and  helpless- 
ness of  a  vice  in  which  there  is  neither  pleasure,  nor  art.  But 
we  are  not,  throughout  Europe,  wholly  thus.  There  is  such 
a  thing,  yet,  as  rapturous  song  and  dance  among  us,  though 
not  indicative  by  any  means  of  jo}^  over  repentant  sinners. 
You  must  come  back  to  Paris  with  me  again.  I  had  an  even- 
ing to  spare  there,  last  summer,  for  investigation  of  theatres  ; 
and  as  there  was  nothing  at  any  of  them  that  I  cared  much 
about  seeing,  I  asked  a  valet-de-place  at  Meurice's,  what  peo- 
ple were  generally  going  to.  He  said,  ■"  All  the  English  went 
to  see  the  Lanterns  Magique"  I  do  not  care  to  tell  you  what 
general  entertainment  I  received  in  following,  for  once,  the 
lead  of  my  countrymen  ;  but  it  closed  with  the  representation 
of  the  characteristic  dancing  of  all  ages  of  the  world  ;  and  the 
dance  given  as  characteristic  of  modern  time  was  the  Cancan, 
which  you  will  see  alluded  to  in  the  extract  given  in  the  note 
at  page  61  of  Sesame  and  Lilies.  "  The  ball  terminated  with 
a  Devilish  Chain  and  a  Cancan  of  Hell,  at  seven  in  the  morn- 
ing." It  was  led  by  four  principal  dancers  (who  have  since 
appeared  in  London  in  the  Huguenot  Captain),  and  it  is  many 
years  since  I  have  seen  such  perfect  dancing,  as  far  as  finish 
and  accuracy  of  art  and  fulness  of  animal  power  and  fire  are 
concerned.  Nothing  could  be  better  done,  in  its  own  evil 
way,  the  object  of  the  dance  throughout  being  to  express  in 
fevery  gesture  the  wildest  fury  of  insolence  and  vicious  pas- 
sions possible  to  human  creatures.  So  that  you  see,  though 
for  the  present  we  find  ourselves  utterly  incapable  of  a  rapt« 


WHEA  T- SIFTING. 


155 


ure  of  gladness  or  thanksgiving,  the  dance  which  is  presented 
as  characteristic  of  modern  civilization  is  still  rapturous  enough 
— but  it  is  with  rapture  of  blasphemy.  Now,  just  read  from 
the  12th  to  16th  page  of  the  preface  to  Sesame  and  Lilies,  and 
I  will  try  to  bring  all  these  broken  threads  into  some  warp 
and  woof,  in  my  text  two  letters— if  I  cannot  in  one. 


LETTER  X. 

THE  MEANING,   AND  ACTUAL  OPERATION,  OF  SATANIC  OR  DEMONIACAL 

INFLUENCE. 

March  16,  1867. 

I  am  afraid  my  weaving,  after  all,  will  be  but  rough  work — 
and  many  ends  of  threads  ill-knotted — but  you  will  see  there's 
a  pattern  at  last,  meant  by  them  all. 

You  may  gather  from  the  facts  given  you  in  my  last  letter, 
that  as  the  expression  of  true  and  holy  gladness  was  in  ol$ 
time  statedly  offered  up  by  men  for  a  part  of  worship  to  Groti 
their  Father — so  the  expression  of  false  and  unholy  gladness 
is  in  modern  times,  with  as  much  distinctnesss  and  plainness, 
asserted  by  them  openly  to  be  offered  to  another  spirit : 
"  Chain  of  the  Devil,  and  Cancan  of  Hell "  being  the  names 
assigned  to  these  modern  forms  of  joyous  procession. 

Now,  you  know  that  among  the  best  and  wisest  of  our  pres- 
ent religious  teachers,  there  is  a  gradual  tendency  to  disbe- 
lieve, and  to  preach  their  disbelief,  in  the  commonly  received 
ideas  of  the  Devil,  and  of  his  place,  and  his  work.  "While, 
among  some  of  our  equally  well-meaning,  but  far  less  wise  re° 
ligious  teachers,  there  is,  in  consequence,  a  panic  spreading, 
in  anticipation  of  the  moral  dangers  which  must  follow  on  the 
loss  of  the  help  of  the  Devil.  One  of  the  last  iippearances  in 
public  of  the  author  of  the  Christian  Year  was  at  a  conclave 
of  clergymen  assembled  in  defence  of  faith  in  damnation. 
The  sense  of  the  meeting  generally  was,  that  there  must  be 
such  a  place  as  hell,  because  no  one  would  ever  behave  de- 
cently upon  earth  unless  they  were  kept  in  wholesome  fear  of 


15G 


TIME  AND  TIDE 


the  fires  beneath  it  :  and  Mr.  Keble  especially  insisting  on 
this  view,  related  a  story  of  an  old  woman,  who  had  a  wicked 
son,  and  who  having  lately  heard  with  horror  of  the  teaching 
of  Mr.  Maurice  and  others,  exclaimed  pathetically,  "My  son 
is  bad  enough  as  it  is,  and  if  he  were  not  afraid  of  hell,  what 
would  become  of  him  !  "  (I  write  from  memory,  and  cannot 
answer  for  the  wrords,  but  I  can  for  their  purport.) 

Now,  my  friend,  I  am  afraid  that  I  must  incur  the  charge 
of  such  presumption  as  may  be  involved  in  variance  from  both 
these  systems  of  teaching. 

I  do  not  merely  believe  there  is  such  a  place  as  hell.  I  know 
there  is  such  a  place  ;  and  I  know  also  that  when  men  have 
got  to  the  point  of  believing  virtue  impossible  but  through 
dread  of  it,  they  have  got  into  it. 

I  mean,  that  according  to  the  distinctness  with  which  they 
hold  such  a  creed,  the  stain  of  nether  fire  has  passed  upon 
them.  In  the  depth  of  his  heart  Mr.  Keble  could  not  have  en- 
tertained the  thought  for  an  instant ;  and  I  believe  it  was  only 
as  a  conspicuous  sign  to  the  religious  world  of  the  state  into 
which  they  were  sinking,  that  this  creed,  possible  in  its  sin- 
cerity only  to  the  basest  of  them,  was  nevertheless  appointed 
to  be  uttered  by  the  lips  of  the  most  tender,  gracious,  and  be- 
loved of  their  teachers. 

"  Virtue  impossible  but  for  fear  of  hell  " — a  lofty  creed  for 
your  English  youth — and  a  holy  one  !  And  yet,  my  friend, 
there  was  something  of  right  in  the  terrors  of  this  clerical  con- 
clave. For,  though  you  should  assuredly  be  able  to  hold  your 
own  in  the  straight  ways  of  God,  without  always  believing 
that  the  Devil  is  at  your  side,  it  is  a  state  of  mind  much  to  be 
dreaded,  that  you  should  not  know  the  Devil  when  you  see  him 
there.  For  the  probability  is,  that  when  you  see  him,  the  way 
you  are  walking  in  is  not  one  of  God's  ways  at  all,  but  is  lead- 
ing you  into  quite  other  neighbourhoods  than  His.  On  His 
way,  indeed,  you  may  often,  like  Albert  Durer's  Knight,  see 
the  Fiend  behind  you,  but  you  will  find  that  he  drops  always 
farther  and  farther  behind  ;  whereas  if  he  jogs  with  you  at 
your  side,  it  is  probably  one  of  his  own  by -paths  you  are  got 
on.    And,  in  any  case,  it  is  a  highly  desirable  matter  that  you 


WHEAT-SIFTING. 


157 


phould  know  him  when  you  set  eyes  on  him,  which  we  are 
very  far  from  doing  in  these  days,  having  convinced  ourselves 
that  the  graminivorous  form  of  him,  with  horn  and  tail,  is  ex- 
tant no  longer.  But  in  fearful  truth,  the  Presence  and  Power 
of  him  is  here  ;  in  the  world,  with  us,  and  within  us,  mock  as 
you  may  ;  and  the  fight  with  him,  for  the  time,  sore,  and 
widely  unprosperous. 

Do  not  think  I  am  speaking  metaphorically,  or  rhetorically, 
or  with  any  other  than  literal  and  earnest  meaning  of  words. 
Hear  me,  I  pray  you,  therefore,  for  a  little  while,  as  earnestly 
as  I  speak. 

Every  faculty  of  man's  soul,  and  every  instinct  of  it  by  which 
he  is  meant  to  live,  is  exposed  to  its  own  special  form  of  corrup- 
tion :  and  whether  within  Man,  or  in  the  external  world,  there 
is  a  power  or  condition  of  temptation  which  is  perpetually  en- 
deavouring to  reduce  every  glory  of  his  soul,  and  every  power 
of  his  life,  to  such  corruption  as  is  possible  to  them.  And  the 
more  beautiful  they  are,  the  more  fearful  is  the  death  which  is 
attached  as  a  penalty  to  their  degradation. 

Take  for  instance  that  which,  in  its  purity,  is  the  source  of 
the  highest  and  purest  mortal  happiness — Love.  Think  of  it 
first  at  its  highest — as  it  may  exist  in  the  disciplined  spirit  of  a 
perfect  human  creature  ;  as  it  has  so  existed  again  and  again, 
and  does  always,  wherever  it  truly  exists  at  all,  as  the  purifying 
passion  of  the  soul.  I  will  not  speak  of  the  transcendental  and 
imaginative  intensity  in  which  it  may  reign  in  noble  hearts,  as 
when  it  inspired  the  greatest  religious  poem  yet  given  to  men, 
but  take  it  in  its  true  and  quiet  purity  in  any  simple  lover's 
heart — as  you  have  it  expressed,  for  instance,  thus,  exquisitely, 
in  the  Angel  in  the  House: — 

"  And  there,  with  many  a  blissful  tear, 
I  vowed  to  love  and  prayed  to  wed 
The  maiden  who  had  grown  so  dear:  — 
Thanked  God,  who  had  set  her  in  my  path 
And  promised,  as  I  hoped  to  win, 
I  never  would  sully  my  faith 
By  the  least  selfishness  or  sin  ; 
Whatever  in  her  sight  I'd  seem 


158 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


I'd  really  be  ;  I  ne'er  would  blend, 

With  my  delight  in  her,  a  dream 

'Twould  change  her  cheek  to  comprehend ; 

And,  if  she  wished  it,  would  prefer 

Another's  to  my  own  success  ; 

And  always  seek  the  best  for  her 

With  unofficious  tenderness." 

Take  this  for  the  pure  type  of  it  in  its  simplicity  ;  and  then 
think  of  what  corruption  this  passion  is  capable.  I  will  give 
you  a  type  of  that  also,  and  at  your  very  doors.  I  cannot  refer 
you  to  the  time  when  the  crime  happened  ;  but  it  was  some 
four  or  five  years  ago,  near  Newcastle,  and  it  has  remained 
always  as  a  ghastly  landmark  in  my  mind,  owing  to  the  horror 
of  the  external  circumstances.  The  body  of  the  murdered 
woman  was  found  naked,  rolled  into  a  heap  of  ashes,  at  the 
mouth  of  one  of  your  pits. 

Take  those  two  limiting  examples,  of  the  Pure  Passion,  and 
of  its  corruption.  Now,  whatever  influence  it  is,  without  or 
within  us,  which  has  a  tendency  to  degrade  the  one  towards 
the  other,  is  literally  and  accurately  u  Satanic."  And  this 
treacherous  or  deceiving  spirit  is  perpetually  at  wrork,  so  that 
all  the  worst  evil  among  us  is  a  betrayed  or  corrupted  good. 
Take  religion  itself  :  the  desire  of  finding  out  God,  and  plac- 
ing one's  self  in  some  true  son's  or  servant's  relation  to  Him. 
The  Devil,  that  is  to  say,  the  deceiving  spirit  within  us,  or 
outside  of  us,  mixes  up  our  own  vanity  with  this  desire  ;  makes 
us  think  that  in  our  love  to  God  we  have  established  some 
connection  with  Him  which  separates  us  from  our  fellow-men, 
and  renders  us  superior  to  them.  Then  it  takes  but  one  wave 
of  the  Devil's  hand  ;  and  we  are  burning  them  alive  for  taking 
the  liberty  of  contradicting  us. 

Take  the  desire  of  teaching — the  eternally  unselfish  and  noble 
instinct  for  telling  to  those  who  are  ignorant,  the  truth  we 
know,  and  guarding  then  from  the  errors  we  see  them  in  dan- 
ger of ; — there  is  no  nobler,  no  more  constant  instinct  in  hon- 
ourable breasts  ;  but  let  the  Devil  formalise,  and  mix  the  pride 
of  a  profession  with  it — get  foolish  people  entrusted  with  the 
business  of  instruction,  and  make  their  giddy  heads  giddier 


WHEAT  SIFTING. 


159 


by  putting  them  up  in  pulpits  above  a  submissive  crowd— and 
you  have  it  instantly  corrupted  into  its  own  reverse  ;  you 
have  an  alliance  against  the  light,  shrieking  at  the  sun,  and 
moon,  and  stars,  as  profane  spectra  : — a  company  of  the 
blind,  beseeching  those  they  lead  to  remain  blind  also.  '-'The 
heavens  and  the  lights  that  rule  them  are  untrue  ;  the  laws  of 
creation  are  treacherous ;  the  poles  of  the  earth  are  out  of 
poise.  But  we  are  true.  Light  is  in  us  only.  Shut  your  eyes 
close  and  fast,  and  we  will  lead  you." 

Take  the  desire  and  faith  of  mutual  help  ;  the  virtue  of 
vowed  brotherhood  for  the  accomplishment  of  common  pur- 
pose (without  which  nothing  can  be  wrought  by  multitudi- 
nous bands  of  men)  ;  let  the  Devil  put  pride  of  caste  into  it, 
and  you  have  a  military  organization  applied  for  a  thousand 
years  to  maintain  that  higher  caste  in  idleness  by  robbing  the 
labouring  poor  ;  let  the  Devil  put  a  few  small  personal  inter- 
ests into  it,  and  you  have  all  faithful  deliberation  on  national 
law  rendered  impossible  in  the  parliaments  of  Europe,  by 
the  antagonism  of  parties. 

Take  the  instinct  for  justice,  and  the  natural  sense  of  indig- 
nation against  crime  ;  let  the  Devil  colour  it  with  personal 
passion,  and  you  have  a  mighty  race  of  true  and  tender-hearted 
men  living  for  centuries  in  such  bloody  feud  that  every  note 
and  word  of  their  national  songs  is  a  dirge,  and  every  rock  of 
their  hills  is  a  grave-stone.  Take  the  love  of  beauty,  and 
power  of  imagination,  which  are  the  source  of  every  true 
achievement  in  art  ;  let  the  Devil  touch  them  with  sensuality, 
and  they  are  stronger  than  the  sword  or  the  flame  to  blast  the 
cities  where  they  were  born,  into  ruin  without  hope.  Take 
the  instinct  of  industry  and  ardour  of  commerce,  which  are 
meant  to  be  the  support  and  mutual  maintenance  of  man ;  let 
the  Devil  touch  them  with  avarice,  and  you  shall  see  the 
avenues  of  the  exchange  choked  with  corpses  that  have  died  of 
famine. 

Now  observe — I  leave  you  to  call  this  deceiving  spirit  what 
you  like — or  to  theorise  about  it  as  you  like.  All  that  I  desire 
you  to  recognise  is  the  fact  of  its  being  here,  and  the  need  of 
its  being  fought  with.    If  you  take  the  Bible's  account  of  it, 


160 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


or  Dante's,  or  Milton's,  you  will  receive  the  image  of  it  as  a 
mighty  spiritual  creature,  commanding  others,  and  resisted 
by  others  ;  if  you  take  iEschylus's  or  Hesiod's  account  of  it, 
you  will  hold  it  for  a  partly  elementary  and  unconscious  ad- 
versity of  fate,  and  partly  for  a  group  of  monstrous  spiritual 
agencies,  connected  with  death,  and  begotten  out  of  the  dust ; 
if  you  take  a  modern  rationalist's,  you  will  accept  it  for  a 
mere  treachery  and  want  of  vitality  in  our  own  moral  nature 
exposing  it  to  loathsomeness  of  moral  disease,  as  the  body  is 
capable  of  mortification  or  leprosy.  I  do  not  care  what  you 
call  it,— whose  history  you  believe  of  it, — nor  what  you  your- 
self can  imagine  about  it  ;  the  origin,  or  nature,  or  name  may 
be  as  you  will,  but  the  deadly  reality  of  the  thing  is  with  us, 
and  warring  against  us,  and  on  our  true  war  with  it  depends 
whatever  life  we  can  win.  Deadly  reality,  I  say.  The  puff- 
adder  or  horned  asp  are  not  more  real.  Unbelievable, — those, 
— unless  you  had  seen  them  ;  no  fable  could  have  been  coined 
out  of  any  human  brain  so  dreadful,  within  its  own  poor 
material  sphere,  as  that  blue-lipped  serpent — working  its  way 
sidelong  in  the  sand.  As  real,  but  with  sting  of  eternal 
death — -this  worm  that  dies  not,  and  fire  that  is  not  quenched, 
within  our  souls,  or  around  them.  Eternal  death,  I  say — ■ 
sure,  that,  whatever  creed  you  hold  ; — if  the  old  Scriptural 
one,  Death  of  perpetual  banishment  from  before  God's  face  ; 
if  the  modern  rationalist  one,  Death  eternal  for  us,  instant  and 
unredeemable  ending  of  lives  wasted  in  misery. 

That  is  what  this  unquestionably  present — this,  according 
to  his  power,  o??im'-present — fiend,  brings  us  to  dairy.  He  is 
the  person  to  be  "  voted  "  against,  my  working  friend ;  it  is 
worth  something,  having  a  vote  against  him,  if  you  can  get 
it !  Which  you  can,  indeed  ;  but  not  by  gift  from  Cabinet 
Ministers  ;  you  must  work  warily  with  your  own  hands,  and 
drop  sweat  of  heart's  blood,  before  you  can  record  that  vote 
effectually. 

Of  which  more  in  next  letter. 


TEE  GOLDEN  BOUGH. 


161 


LETTER  XI. 

THE  SATANIC  POWER  IS  MAINLY  TWOFOLD  J  THE  POWER  OF  CAUSING 

FALSEHOOD  AND  THE  POWER  OF  CAUSING  PAIN.  THE  RESISTANCE 

IS  BY  LAW  OF  HONOUR  AND  LAW  OF  DELIGHT. 

March  19,  1867. 

You  may  perhaps  have  thought  my  last  three  or  four  letters 
mere  rhapsodies.  They  are  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  they  are 
accurate  accounts  of  literal  facts,  which  we  have  to  deal  with 
daily.  This  thing,  or  power,  opposed  to  God's  power,  and 
specifically  called  "Mammon "  in  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount, 
is  in  deed  and  in  truth  a  continually  present  and  active  enemy, 
properly  called  "  A rch -enemy,"  that  is  to  say,  "Beginning  and 
Prince  of  Enemies,"  and  daily  we  have  to  record  our  vote  for, 
or  against  him.  Of  the  manner  of  which  record  we  were  next 
to  consider. 

This  enemy  is  always  recognisable,  briefly  in  two  functions. 
He  is  pre-eminently  the  Lord  of  Lies  and  the  Lord  of  Pain, 
Wherever  lies  are,  he  is ;  wherever  pain  is,  he  has  been — so 
that  of  the  Spirit  of  Wisdom  (who  is  called  God's  Helper,  as 
Satan  His  Adversary)  it  is  written,  not  only  that  by  her  Kings 
reign,  and  Princes  decree  justice,  but  also  that  her  ways  are 
ways  of  Pleasantness,  and  all  her  paths  Peace. 

Therefore,  you  will  succeed,  you  working  men,  in  recording 
your  votes  against  this  arch-enemy,  precisely  in  the  degree  in 
which  you  can  do  away  with  falsehood  and  pain  in  your  work 
and  lives  ;  and  bring  truth  into  the  one,  and  pleasure  into  the 
other  ;  all  education  being  directed  to  make  yourselves  and 
your  children  capable  of  Honesty,  and  capable  of  Delight ;  and 
to  rescue  yourselves  from  iniquity  and  agony.  And  this  is 
what  I  meant  by  saying  in  the  preface  to  Unto  this  Last  that 
the  central  requirement  of  education  consisted  in  giving  habits 
of  gentleness  and  justice  ;  "  gentleness"  (as  I  will  show  you 
presently)  being  the  best  single  word  I  could  have  used  to  ex- 
press the  capacity  for  giving  and  receiving  true  pleasure  ;  and 
"  justice,"  being  similarly  the  most  comprehensive  word  for 
all  kind  of  honest  dealing. 


162 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


Now,  I  began  these  letters  with  the  purpose  of  explaining 
the  nature  of  the  requirements  of  justice  first,  and  then  those 
of  gentleness,  but  I  allowed  myself  to  be  led  into  that  talk 
about  the  theatres,  not  only  because  the  thoughts  could  be 
more  easily  written  as  they  came,  but  also  because  I  was  able 
thus  to  illustrate  for  you  more  directly  the  nature  of  the  enemy 
we  have  to  deal  with.  You  do  not  perhaps  know,  though  I 
say  this  diffidently  (for  I  often  find  working  men  know  many 
things  which  one  would  have  thought  were  out  of  their  way), 
that  music  was  among  the  Greeks,  quite  the  first  means  of 
education  ;  and  that  it  was  so  connected  with  their  system  of 
ethics  and  of  intellectual  training,  that  the  God  of  Music  is 
with  them  also  the  God  of  Righteousness; — the  God  who 
purges  and  avenges  iniquity,  and  contends  with  their  Satan 
as  represented  under  the  form  of  Python,  "the  corrupter." 
And  the  Greeks  wTere  incontrovertibly  right  in  this.  Music  is 
the  nearest  at  hand,  the  most  orderly,  the  most  delicate,  and 
the  most  perfect,  of  all  bodily  pleasures ;  it  is  also  the  only 
one  which  is  equally  helpful  to  all  the  ages  of  man, — helpful 
from  the  nurse's  song  to  her  infant,  to  the  music,  unheard  of 
others,  which  often,  if  not  most  frequently,  haunts  the  death- 
bed of  pure  and  innocent  spirits.  And  the  action  of  the  de- 
ceiving or  devilish  power  is  in  nothing  shown  quite  so  distinctly 
among  us  at  this  day, — not  even  in  our  commercial  dishon- 
esties, nor  in  our  social  cruelties, — as  in  its  having  been  able  to 
take  away  music,  as  an  instrument  of  education,  altogether  ; 
and  to  enlist  it  almost  wholly  in  the  service  of  superstition  on 
the  one  hand,  and  of  sensuality  on  the  other. 

This  power  of  the  Muses,  then,  and  its  proper  influence 
over  your  workmen,  I  shall  eventually  have  much  to  insist 
upon  with  you  ;  and  in  doing  so  I  shall  take  that  beautiful 
parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son  (which  I  have  already  referred 
to),  and  explain  as  far  as  I  know,  the  significance  of  it,  and 
then  I  will  take  the  three  means  of  festivity,  or  wholesome 
human  joy,  therein  stated — fine  dress,  rich  food,  and  music; 
— ("  bring  forth  the  fairest  robe  for  him," — "  bring  forth  the 
fatted  calf,  and  kill  it ;  "  "  as  he  drew  nigh,  he  heard  music 
and  dancing  ; ")  and  I  will  show  you  how  all  these  three  things, 


DICTATORSHIP. 


163 


fine  dress,  rich  food,  and  music  (including  ultimately  all  the 
other  arts)  are  meant  to  be  sources  of  life,  and  means  of 
moral  discipline,  to  all  men  ;  and  how  they  have  all  three 
been  made,  by  the  Devil,  the  means  of  guilt,  dissoluteness, 
and  death.  But  first  I  must  return  to  my  original  plan  of 
these  letters,  and  endeavour  to  set  down  for  you  some  of 
the  laws  which  in  a  true  Working  Men's  Parliament  must  be 
ordained  in  defence  of  Honesty. 

Of  which  laws  (preliminary  to  all  others,  and  necessary 
above  all  others),  having  now  somewhat  got  my  ravelled 
threads  together  again,  I  will  begin  to  talk  in  my  next  letter. 


LETTER  XII. 

THE  NECESSITY  OF  IMPERATIVE  LAW  TO  THE  PROSPERITY  OF  STATES. 

March  19,  1867. 

I  have  your  most  interesting  letter,1  which  I  keep  for  ref- 
erence, when  I  come  to  the  consideration  of  its  subject  in  its 
proper  place,  under  the  head  of  the  abuse  of  Food.  I  do  not 
wonder  that  your  life  should  be  rendered  unhappy  by  the 
scenes  of  drunkenness  which  you  are  so  often  compelled  to 
witness  ;  nor  that  this  so  gigantic  and  infectious  evil  should 
seem  to  you  the  root  of  the  greater  part  of  the  misery  of  our 
lower  orders.  I  do  not  wonder  that  Sir  Walter  Trevelyan 
has  given  his  best  energy  to  its  repression  ;  nor  even  that  an- 
other friend,  George  Cruikshank,  has  warped  the  entire  cur- 
rent of  his  thoughts  and  life,  at  once  to  my  admiration  and 
my  sorrow,  from  their  natural  field  of  work,  that  he  might 
spend  them,  in  struggle,  for  the  poor  lowest  people  whom  he 
knows  so  well,  with  this  fiend  who  grasps  his  victims  by  the 
throat  first,  and  then  by  the  heart.  I  wholly  sympathise  with 
you  in  indignation  at  the  methods  of  temptation  employed, 
and  at  the  use  of  the  fortunes  made,  by  the  vendors  of  death ; 
and  whatever  immediately  applicable  legal  means  there  might 
be  of  restricting  the  causes  of  drunkenness,  I  should  without 

1  Appendix  IV. 


164 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


hesitation  desire  to  bring  into  operation.  But  all  such  appli- 
ance I  consider  temporary  and  provisionally  ;  nor,  while  there 
is  record  of  the  miracle  at  Cana  (not  to  speak  of  the  sacra- 
ment) can  I  conceive  it  possible,  without  (logically)  the  denial 
of  the  entire  truth  of  the  New  Testament,  to  reprobate  the 
use  of  wine  as  a  stimulus  to  the  powers  of  life.  Supposing 
we  did  deny  the  words  and  deeds  of  the  Founder  of  Chris- 
tianity, the  authority  of  the  wisest  heathens,  especially  that 
of  Plato  in  the  Laws,  is  wTholly  against  abstinence  from  wine  ; 
and  much  as  I  can  believe,  and  as  I  have  been  endeavouring 
to  make  you  believe  also,  of  the  subtlety  of  the  Devil,  I  do  not 
suppose  the  vine  to  have  been  one  of  his  inventions.  Of  this, 
however,  more  in  another  place.  By  the  way,  was  it  not 
curious  that  in  the  Manchester  Examiner,  in  which  that  letter 
of  mine  on  the  abuse  of  dancing  appeared,  there  chanced  to 
be  in  the  next  column  a  paragraph  giving  an  account  of  a  girl 
stabbing  her  betrayer  in  a  ball  room  ;  and  another  paragraph 
describing  a  Parisian  character,  which  gives  exactly  the  ex- 
treme type  I  wanted,  for  example  of  the  abuse  of  food  ? 1 

I  return,  however,  now  to  the  examination  df* possible  means 
for  the  enforcement  of  justice,  in  temper  and  in  act,  as  the 
first  of  political  requirements.  And  as,  in  stating  my  convic- 
tion of  the  necessity  of  certain  stringent  laws  on  this  matter, 
I  shall  be  in  direct  opposition  to  Mr.  Stuart  Mill ;  and  more 
or  less  in  opposition  to  other  professors  of  modern  political 
economy,  as  wrell  as  to  many  honest  and  active  promoters  of 
the  privileges  of  working  men  (as  if  privilege  only  were  wanted, 
and  never  restraint !),  I  will  give  you,  as  briefly  as  I  can,  the 
grounds  on  which  I  am  prepared  to  justify  such  opposition. 

"When  the  crew  of  a  wrecked  ship  escape  in  an  open  boat, 
and  the  boat  is  crowded,  the  provisions  scanty,  and  the  pros- 
pect of  making  land  distant,  laws  are  instantly  established 
and  enforced  which  no  one  thinks  of  disobeying.  An  entire 
equality  of  claim  to  the  provisions  is  acknowledged  without 
dispute  ;  and  an  equal  liability  to  necessary  labour.  No  man 
who  can  row  is  allowed  to  refuse  his  oar  ;  no  man,  however 
much  money  he  may  have  saved  in  his  pocket,  is  allowed  so 

1  Appendix  V. 


DICTATORSHIP. 


1G5 


much  as  half  a  biscuit  beyond  his  proper  ration.  Any  riotoug 
person  who  endangered  the  safety  of  the  rest  would  be  bound, 
and  laid  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  without  the  smallest  com- 
punction for  such  violation  of  the  principles  of  individual  lib- 
erty ;  and  on  the  other  hand,  any  child,  or  woman,  or  aged 
person,  who  was  helpless,  and  exposed  to  greater  danger  and 
suffering  by  their  weakness,  would  receive  more  than  ordinary 
care  and  indulgence,  not  unaccompanied  with  unanimous  self- 
sacrifice,  on  the  part  of  the  labouring  crew. 

There  is  never  any  question,  under  circumstances  like  these, 
of  what  is  right  and  wrong,  worthy  and  unworthy,  wise  or 
foolish.  If  there  be  any  question,  there  is  little  hope  for  boat 
or  crew.  The  right  man  is  put  at  the  helm  ;  every  available 
hand  is  set  to  the  oars  ;  the  sick  are  tended,  and  the  vicious 
restrained,  at  once,  and  decisively  ;  or  if  not,  the  end  is  near. 

Now,  the  circumstances  of  every  associated  group  of  human 
society,  contending  bravely  for  national  honours,  and  felic- 
ity of  life,  differ  only  from  those  thus  supposed,  in  the  greater, 
instead  of  less,  necessity  for  the  establishment  of  restraining 
law.  There  is  no  point  of  difference  in  the  difficulties  to  be 
met,  nor  in  the  rights  reciprocally  to  be  exercised.  Vice  and 
indolence  are  not  less,  but  more,  injurious  in  a  nation  than 
in  a  boat's  com  pan  j  ;  the  modes  in  which  they  affect  the  in- 
terests of  worthy  persons  being  far  more  complex,  and  more 
easily  concealed.  The  right  of  restraint,  vested  in  those  who 
labour,  over  those  who  would  impede  their  labour,  is  as  ab- 
solute in  the  large  as  in  the  small  society  ;  the  equal  claim  to 
share  in  whatever  is  necessary  to  the  common  life  (or  com- 
monwealth) is  as  indefeasible  ;  the  claim  of  the  sick  and  help- 
less to  be  cared  for  by  the  strong  with  earnest  self-sacrifice,  is 
as  pitiful  and  as  imperative  ;  the  necessity  that  the  governing 
authority  should  be  in  the  hands  of  a  true  and  trained  pilot 
is  as  clear,  and  as  constant.  In  none  of  these  conditions  is 
there  any  difference  between  a  nation  and  a  boat's  company. 
The  only  difference  is  in  this,  that  the  impossibility  of  dis- 
cerning the  effects  of  individual  error  and  crime,  or  of  coun- 
teracting them  by  individual  effort,  in  the  affairs  of  a  great 
nation,  renders  it  tenfold  more  necessary  than  in  a  small  society 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


that  direction  by  law  should  be  sternly  established.  Assume 
that  your  boat's  crew  is  disorderly  and  licentious,  and  will,  by 
agreement,  submit  to  no  order ; — the  most  troublesome  of 
them  will  yet  be  easily  discerned  ;  and  the  chance  is  that  the 
best  man  among  them  knocks  him  down.  Common  instinct  of 
self-preservation  will  make  the  rioters  put  a  good  sailor  at  the 
helm,  and  impulsive  pity  and  occasional  help  will  be,  by  heart 
and  hand,  here  and  there  given  to  visible  distress.  Not  so  in 
the  ship  of  the  realm.  The  most  troublesome  persons  in  it 
are  usually  the  least  recognized  for  such,  and  the  most  active 
in  its  management ;  the  best  men  mind  their  own  business 
patiently,  and  are  never  thought  of ;  the  good  helmsman 
never  touches  the  tiller  but  in  the  last  extremity  ;  and  the 
worst  forms  of  misery  are  hidden,  not  only  from  every  eye,  but 
from  every  thought.  On  the  deck,  the  aspect  is  of  Cleopatra's 
galley — under  hatches,  there  is  a  slave-hospital ;  while,  finally 
(and  this  is  the  most  fatal  difference  of  all),  even  the  few  per- 
sons who  care  to  interfere  energetically,  with  purpose  of  do- 
ing good,  can,  in  a  large  society,  discern  so  little  of  the  real 
state  of  evil  to  be  dealt  with,  and  judge  so  little  of  the  best 
means  of  dealing  with  it,  that  half  of  their  best  efforts  will  be 
misdirected,  and  some  may  even  do  more  harm  than  good. 
Whereas  it  is  the  sorrowful  law  of  this  universe  that  evil, 
even  unconscious  and  unintended,  never  fails  of  Us  effect ; 
and  in  a  state  where  the  evil  and  the  good,  under  conditions 
of  individual  "  liberty,"  are  allowed  to  contend  together,  not 
only  every  stroke  on  the  Devil's  side  tells — but  every  dip  (the 
mistakes  of  wicked  men  being  as  mischievous  as  their  suc- 
cesses) ;  while  on  the  side  of  right,  there  will  be  much  direct 
and  fatal  defeat,  and,  even  of  its  measures  of  victory,  half  will 
be  fruitless. 

It  is  true,  of  course,  that,  in  the  end  of  ends,  nothing  but 
the  right  conquers :  the  prevalent  thorns  of  wrong,  at  last 
crackle  away  in  indiscriminate  flame  :  and  of  the  good  seed 
sown,  one  grain  in  a  thousand,  at  last,  verily  comes  up — and 
somebody  lives  by  it ;  but  most  of  our  great  teachers,  not  ex- 
cepting Carryle  and  Emerson  themselves,  are  a  little  too  en- 
couraging  in  their  proclamation  of  this  comfort,  not,  to  my 


DICTATORSHIP. 


167 


mind,  very  sufficient,  when  for  the  present  our  fields  are  full 
of  nothing  but  nettles  and  thistles,  instead  of  wheat ;  and 
none  of  them  seem  to  me  yet  to  have  enough  insisted  on 
the  inevitable  power  and  infectiousness  of  all  evil,  and  the 
easy  and  utter  extinguishableness  of  good.  Medicine  often 
fails  of  its  effect — but  poison  never  :  and  while,  in  summing 
the  observation  of  past  life,  not  uirwatchfully  spent,  I  can 
truly  say  that  I  have  a  thousand  times  seen  patience  disap- 
pointed of  her  hope,  and  wisdom  of  her  aim,  I  have  never  yet 
seen  folly  fruitless  of  mischief,  nor  vice  conclude  but  in  ca- 
lamity. 

There  is,  however,  one  important  condition  in  national 
economy,  in  which  the  analogy  of  that  of  a  ship's  company  is 
incomplete  :  namely,  that  while  labour  at  oar  or  sail  is  nec- 
essarily united,  and  can  attain  no  independent  good,  or  per- 
sonal profit,  the  labour  properly  undertaken  by  the  several 
members  of  a  political  community  is  necessarily,  and  justly, 
within  certain  limits,  independent ;  and  obtains  for  them  in- 
dependent advantage,  of  which,  if  you  will  glance  at  the  last 
paragraph  of  the  first  essay  in  Munera  Pulverix,1  you  will  see 
I  should  be  the  last  person  to  propose  depriving  them.  This 
great  difference  in  final  condition  involves  necessarily  much 
complexity  in  the  system  and  application  of  general  laws  ; 
but  it  in  no  wiee  abrogates, — on  the  contrary,  it  renders  yet 
more  imperative, — the  necessity  for  the  firm  ordinance  of 
such  laws,  which,  marking  the  due  limits  of  independent 
agency,  may  enable  it  to  exist  in  full  energy,  not  only  without 
becoming  injurious,  but  so  as  more  variously  and  perfectly  to 
promote  the  entire  interests  of  the  commonwealth. 

I  will  address  myself,  therefore,  in  my  next  letter,  to  the 
the  statement  of  some  of  these  necessary  laws. 

1  Appendix  VI. 


168 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


LETTER  XIII. 

THE  PROPER  OFFICES  OF  THE  BISHOP  AND  DUKE  \  OR,  (( OVERSEER " 
AND   "  LEADER. " 

March  21,  1867. 

I  see,  by  your  last  letter,  for  which  I  heartily  thank  you, 
that  you  would  not  sympathise  with  me  in  my  sorrow  for  tha 
desertion  of  his  own  work  by  George  Cruikshank,  that  ha 
may  fight  in  the  front  of  the  temperance  ranks.  But  you  do 
not  know  what  work  he  has  left  undone,  nor  how  much  richer 
inheritance  you  might  have  received  from  his  hand.  It  was 
no  more  his  business  to  etch  diagrams  of  drunkenness  than  it 
is  mine  at  this  moment  to  be  writing  these  letters  against 
anarchy.  It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March "  (high  time,  I 
think,  that  it  should  be !),  and  by  rights  I  ought  to  be  out 
among  the  budding  banks  and  hedges,  outlining  sprays  of 
hawthorn,  and  clusters  of  primrose.  This  is  my  right  work  ; 
and  it  is  not,  in  the  inner  gist  and  truth  of  it,  right  nor  good, 
for  you,  or  for  anybody  else,  that  Cruikshank  with  his  great 
gift,  and  I  with  my  weak,  but  yet  thoroughly  clear  and  defi- 
nite one,  should  both  of  us  be  tormented  by  agony  of  indig- 
nation and  compassion,  till  we  are  forced  to  give  up  our  peace, 
and  pleasure,  and  power  ;  and  rush  down  into  the  streets  and 
lanes  of  the  city,  to  do  the  little  that  is  in  the  strength  of  our 
single  hands  against  their  uncleanliness  and  iniquity.  But, 
as  in  a  sorely  besieged  town,  every  man  must  to  the  ramparts, 
whatsoever  business  he  leaves,  so  neither  he  nor  I  have  had 
any  choice  but  to  leave  our  household  stuff,  and  go  on  cru- 
sade, such  as  we  are  called  to  ;  not  that  I  mean,  if  Fate  may 
be  anywise  resisted,  to  give  up  the  strength  of  my  life,  as  he 
has  given  his  ;  for  I  think  he  was  wrong  in  doing  so ;  and 
that  he  should  only  have  carried  the  fiery  cross  his  appointed 
leagues,  and  then  given  it  to  another  hand  :  and,  for  my  own 
part,  I  mean  these  very  letters  to  close  my  political  work  for 
many  a  day  ;  and  I  write  them,  not  in  any  hope  of  their 
being  at  present  listened  to,  but  to  disburden  my  heart  of  the 


EPISCOPACY  AND  DUKEDOM. 


169 


witness  I  have  to  bear,  that  I  may  be  free  to  go  back  to  my 
garden  lawns,  and  paint  birds  and  flowers  there. 

For  these  same  statutes  which  we  are  to  consider  to-day, 
have  indeed  been  in  my  mind  now  these  fourteen  years,  ever 
since  I  wrote  the  last  volume  of  the  Stones  of  Venice,  in  which 
you  will  find,  in  the  long  note  on  Modern  Education  (p.  212), 
most  of  what  I  have  been  now  in  detail  writing  to  you,  hinted 
in  abstract ;  and,  at  the  close  of  it,  this  sentence,  of  which  I 
solemnly  now  avouch  (in  thankfulness  that  I  was  permitted  to 
write  it),  every  word  : — "  Finally,  I  hold  it  for  indisputable, 
that  the  first  duty  of  a  State  is  to  see  that  every  child  born 
therein  shall  be  well  housed,  clothed,  fed,  and  educated,  till 
it  attain  years  of  discretion.  But  in  order  to  the  effecting  this 
the  Government  must  have  an  authority  over  the  people  of 
which  we  now  do  not  so  much  as  dream." 

That  authority  I  did  not  then  endeavour  to  define,  for  I 
knew  all  such  assertions  would  be  useless,  and  that  the  neces- 
sarily resultant  outcry  would  merely  diminish  my  influence  in 
other  directions.  But  now  I  do  not  care  about  influence  any 
more,  it  being  only  my  concern  to  say  truly  that  which  I  know, 
and,  if  it  may  be,  get  some  cpiet  life,  yet,  among  the  fields  in 
the  evening  shadow. 

There  is,  I  suppose,  no  word  which  men  are  prouder  of  the 
right  to  attach  to  their  names,  or  more  envious  of  others  who 
bear  it,  when  they  themselves  may  not,  than  the  word  "noble." 
Do  you  know  what  it  originally  meant,  and  always,  in  the  right 
use  of  it,  means?  It  means  a  "known"  person  ;  one  who  has 
risen  far  enough  above  others  to  draw  men's  eyes  to  him,  and 
to  be  known  (honorably)  for  such  and  such  an  one.  "  Ignoble," 
on  the  other  hand,  is  derived  from  the  same  root  as  the  word 
"•ignorance."  It  means  an  unknown,  inglorious  person.  And 
no  more  singular  follies  have  been  committed  by  weak  human 
creatures,  than  those  which  have  been  caused  by  the  instinct, 
pure  and  simple,  of  escaping  from  this  obscurity.  Instinct, 
which,  corrupted,  will  hesitate  at  no  means,  good  or  evil,  of 
satisfying  itself  with  notoriety — instinct,  nevertheless,  which, 
like  all  other  natural  ones,  has  a  true  and  pure  purpose,  and 
ought  always  in  a  worthy  way  to  be  satisfied. 


170 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


All  men  ought  to  be  in  this  sense  "noble  ; "  known  of  each 
other,  and  desiring  to  be  known.  And  the  first  law  which  a 
nation,  desiring  to  conquer  all  the  devices  of  the  Father  of 
Lies,  should  establish  among  its  people,  is  that  they  shall  be 
so  known. 

Will  you  please  now  read  the  forty-third  and  forty-fourth 
pages  of  Sesame  and  Lilies.1  The  reviewers  in  the  ecclesias- 
tical journals  laughed  at  them,  as  a  rhapsody,  when  the  book 
came  out  ;  none  having  the  slightest  notion  of  what  I  meant 
(nor,  indeed,  do  I  well  see  how  it  could  be  otherwise !).  Never- 
theless, I  meant  precisely  and  literally  what  is  there  said, 
namely,  that  a  bishop's  duty  being  to  watch  over  the  souls  of 
his  people,  and  give  account  of  every  one  of  them,  it  becomes 
practically  necessary  for  him  first  to  give  some  account  of  their 
bodies.  Which  he  was  wont  to  do  in  the  early  days  of  Christi- 
anity by  help  of  a  person  called  "  deacon  "  or  "  ministering 
servant,"  whose  name  is  still  retained  among  preliminary  ec- 
clesiastical dignities,  vainly  enough !  Putting,  however,  all 
question  of  forms  and  names  aside,  the  thing  actually  needing 
to  be  done  is  this — that  over  every  hundred  (or  some  not  much 
greater  number)  of  the  families  composing  a  Christian  State, 
there  should  be  appointed  an  overseer,  or  bishop,  to  render 
account,  to  the  State,  of  the  life  of  every  individual  in  those 
families ;  and  to  have  care  both  of  their  interest  and  conduct 
to  such  an  extent  as  they  may  be  willing  to  admit,  or  as  their 
faults  may  justify  ;  so  that  it  may  be  impossible  for  any  per- 
son, however  humble,  to  suffer  from  unknown  want,  or  live  in 
unrecognised  crimes ; — such  help  and  observance  being  ren- 
dered without  officiousness  either  of  interference  or  inquisition 
(the  limits  of  both  being  determined  by  national  law),  but 
with  the  patient  and  gentle  watchfulness  which  true  Christian 
pastors  now  exercise  over  their  flocks  ;  only  with  a  higher  legal 
authority,  presently  to  be  defined,  of  interference  on  due  oc- 
casion. 

And  with  this  farther  function,  that  such  overseers  shall  be 
not  only  the  pastors,  but  the  biographers,  of  their  people;  a  writ- 
ten statement  of  the  principal  events  in  the  life  of  each  family 
1  Appendix  VII. 


EPISCOPACY  AND  DUKEDOM. 


171 


being  annually  required  to  be  rendered  by  them  to  a  superior 
State  officer.  These  records,  laid  up  in  public  offices,  would 
soon  furnish  indications  of  the  families  whom  it  would  be  ad- 
vantageous to  the  nation  to  advance  in  position,  or  distinguish 
with  honour,  and  aid  by  such  reward  as  it  should  be  the  ob- 
ject of  every  Government  to  distribute  no  less  punctually,  and 
far  more  frankly,  than  it  distributes  punishment  (compare 
Munera  Pulveris,  Essay  IV.,  in  paragraph  on  Critic  Law),  while 
the  mere  fact  of  permanent  record  being  kept  of  every  event 
of  importance,  whether  disgraceful  or  worthy  of  praise,  in 
each  family,  would  of  itself  be  a  deterrent  from  crime,  and  a 
stimulant  to  well-deserving  conduct,  far  beyond  mere  punish- 
ment or  reward. 

Nor  need  you  think  that  there  would  be  anything  in  such 
a  system  un-English,  or  tending  to  espionage.  No  uninvited 
visits  should  ever  be  made  in  any  house,  unless  law  had  been 
violated  ;  nothing  recorded,  against  its  will,  of  any  family,  but 
what  was  inevitably  known  of  its  publicly  visible  conduct,  and 
the  results  of  that  conduct.  What  else  was  written  should  be 
only  by  the  desire,  and  from  the  communications,  of  its  head. 
And  in  a  little  while  it  would  come  to  be  felt  that  the  true 
history  of  a  nation  was  indeed  not  of  its  wars,  but  of  its 
households  ;  and  the  desire  of  men  would  rather  be  to  obtain 
some  conspicuous  place  in  these  honourable  annals,  than  to 
shrink  behind  closed  shutters  from  public  sight.  Until  at 
last,  George  Herbert's  grand  word  of  command  would  hold 
not  only  on  the  conscience,  but  the  actual  system  and  outer 
economy  of  life, 

"  Think  the  King  sees  thee  still,  for  Ms  King  does." 

Secondly,  above  these  bishops  or  pastors,  who  are  only  to 
be  occupied  in  offices  of  familiar  supervision  and  help,  should 
be  appointed  higher  officers  of  State,  having  executive  au- 
thority over  as  large  districts  as  might  be  conveniently  (ac- 
cording to  the  number  and  circumstances  of  their  inhabitants) 
committed  to  their  care  ;  officers,  who,  according  to  the  reports 
of  the  pastors,  should  enforce  or  mitigate  the  operation  of  too 


172 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


rigid  general  law,  and  determine  measures  exceptionally  neo 
essary  for  public  advantage.  For  instance,  the  general  law 
being  that  all  children  of  the  operative  classes,  at  a  certain 
age,  should  be  sent  to  public  schools,  these  superior  officers 
should  have  power,  on  the  report  of  the  pastors,  to  dispense 
with  the  attendance  of  children  who  had  sick  parents  to  take 
charge  of,  or  whose  home-life  seemed  to  be  one  of  better  ad- 
vantage for  them  than  that  of  the  common  schools  ;  or  who 
for  any  other  like  cause  might  justifiably  claim  remission. 
And  it  being  the  general  law  that  the  entire  body  of  the  pub- 
lic should  contribute  to  the  cost,  and  divide  the  profits,  of  all 
necessary  public  works  and  undertakings,  as  roads,  mines, 
harbour  protections,  and  the  like,  and  that  nothing  of  this 
kind  should  be  permitted  to  be  in  the  hands  of  private  specu- 
lators, it  should  be  the  duty  of  the  district  officer  to  collect 
whatever  information  was  accessible  respecting  such  sources 
of  public  profit ;  and  to  represent  the  circumstances  in  Parlia- 
ment :  and  then,  with  parliamentary  authority,  but  on  his 
own  sole  personal  responsibility,  to  see  that  such  enterprises 
were  conducted  honestly,  and  with  due  energy  and  order. 

The  appointment  to  both  these  offices  should  be  by  election, 
and  for  life  ;  by  what  forms  of  election  shall  be  matter  of  in- 
quiry, after  we  have  determined  some  others  of  the  necessary 
constitutional  laws. 

I  do  not  doubt  but  that  you  are  already  beginning  to  think 
it  was  with  good  reason  I  held  my  peace  these  fourteen  years, 
—and  that,  for  any  good  likely  to  be  done  by  speaking,  I 
might  as  well  have  held  it  altogether ! 

It  may  be  so  :  but  merely  to  complete  and  explain  my  own 
work,  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  say  these  things  finally  ; 
and  I  believe  that  the  imminent  danger  to  which  we  are  now 
in  England  exposed  by  the  gradually  accelerated  fall  of  our 
aristocracy  (wholly  their  own  fault),  and  the  substitution  of 
money-power  for  their  martial  one  ;  and  by  the  correspond- 
ently  imminent  prevalence  of  mob-violence  here,  as  in  America; 
together  with  the  continually  increasing  chances  of  insane 
war,  founded  on  popular  passion,  whether  of  pride,  fear,  or 
acquisitiveness, —all  these  dangers  being  further  darkened 


TRADE-  WARRANT. 


173 


and  degraded  by  the  monstrous  forms  of  vice  and  selfishness 
which  the  appliances  of  recent  wealth,  and  of  vulgar  mechani- 
cal art,  make  possible  to  the  million, — will  soon  bring  us  into 
a  condition  in  which  men  will  be  glad  to  listen  to  almost  any 
wrords  but  those  of  a  demagogue,  and  to  seek  any  means  of 
safety  rather  than  those  in  which  they  have  lately  trusted. 
So,  with  your  good  leave,  I  will  say  my  say  to  the  end,  mock 
at  it  who  may. 

P.S. — I  take  due  note  of  the  regulations  of  trade  proposed 
in  your  letter  just  received  1 — all  excellent.  I  shall  come  to 
them  presently,  "  Cash  payment  "  above  all.  You  may  write 
that  on  your  trade-banners  in  letters  of  gold,  wherever  you 
would  have  them  raised  victoriously. 


LETTER  XIV. 

THE  FIRST   GBOUP   OF  ESSENTIAL   LAWS — AGAINST   THEFT  BY  FALSE 
WORK,  AND  BY  BANKBUPTCY.  NECESSABY  PUBLICITY  OF  ACCOUNTS. 

March  26,  18G7. 

I  feel  much  inclined  to  pause  at  this  point,  to  answer  the  kind 
questions  and  objections  which  I  know  must  be  rising  in  your 
mind,  respecting  the  authority  supposed  to  be  lodged  in  the  per- 
sons of  the  officers  just  specified.  But  I  can  neither  define,  nor 
justify  to  you,  the  powers  I  would  desire  to  see  given  to  them, 
till  I  state  to  you  the  kind  of  laws  they  would  have  to  enforce  : 
of  which  the  first  group  should  be  directed  to  the  prevention 
of  all  kinds  of  thieving ;  but  chiefly  of  the  occult  and  polite 
methods  of  it ;  and,  of  all  occult  methods,  chiefly,  the  making 
and  selling  of  bad  goods.  No  form  of  theft  is  so  criminal  as 
this — none  so  deadly  to  the  State.  If  you  break  into  a  man's 
house  and  steal  a  hundred  pounds'  worth  of  plate,  he  knows 
his  loss,  and  there  is  an  end  (besides  that  you  take  your  risk 
of  punishment  for  your  gain,  like  a  man).  And  if  you  do  it 
bravely  and  openly,  and  habitually  live  by  such  inroad,  you 
1  Appendix  VIII. 


174 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


may  retain  nearly  every  moral  and  manly  virtue,  and  become 
a  heroic  rider  and  reiver,  and  hero  of  song.  But  if  you 
swindle  me  out  of  twenty  shillings'-worth  of  quality,  on  each 
of  a  hundred  bargains,  I  lose  my  hundred  pounds  all  the 
same,  and  I  get  a  hundred  untrustworthy  articles  besides, 
which  will  fail  me  and  injure  me  in  all  manner  of  ways,  when 
I  least  expect  it ;  and  you,  having  done  your  thieving  basely, 
are  corrupted  by  the  guilt  of  it  to  the  very  heart's  core. 

This  is  the  first  thing,  therefore,  which  your  general  laws 
must  be  set  to  punish,  fiercely,  immitigably,  to  the  utter  pre- 
vention and  extinction  of  it,  or  there  is  no  hope  for  you.  No 
religion  that  ever  was  preached  on  this  earth  of  God's  round- 
ing, ever  proclaimed  any  salvation  to  sellers  of  bad  goods.  If 
the  Ghost  that  is  in  you,  whatever  the  essence  of  it,  leaves 
your  hand  a  juggler's  and  your  heart  a  cheat's,  it  is  not  a  Holy 
Ghost,  be  assured  of  that.  And  for  the  rest,  all  political  econ- 
omy, as  well  as  all  higher  virtue,  depends  first  on  sound  work. 

Let  your  laws  then,  I  say,  in  the  beginning,  be  set  to  secure 
this.  You  cannot  make  punishment  too  stern  for  subtle  knav- 
ery. Keep  no  truce  with  this  enemy,  wdiatever  pardon  you 
extend  to  more  generous  ones.  For  light  weights  and  false 
measures,  or  for  proved  adulteration  or  dishonest  manufact- 
ure of  article,  the  penalty  should  be  simply  confiscation  of 
goods  and  sending  out  of  the  country.  The  kind  of  person 
who  desires  prosperity  by  such  practices,  could  not  be  made 
to  "  emigrate  "  too  speedily.  "What  to  do  with  him  in  the 
place  you  appointed  to  be  blessed  by  his  presence,  we  will  in 
time  consider. 

Under  such  penalty,  however,  and  yet  more  under  the  press- 
ure of  such  a  right  public  opinion  as  could  pronounce  and 
enforce  such  penalty,  I  imagine  that  sham  articles  would  be- 
come speedily  as  rare  as  sound  ones  are  now.  The  chief  dif- 
ficulty in  the  matter  wrould  be  to  fix  your  standard.  This 
would  have  to  be  done  by  the  guild  of  every  trade  in  its  own 
manner,  and  within  certain  easily  recognizable  limits ;  and 
this  fixing  of  standard  would  necessitate  much  simplicity  in 
the  forms  and  kinds  of  articles  sold.  You  could  only  warrant 
a  certain  kind  of  glazing  or  painting  in  china,  a  certain  quality 


TRADE-  WARRANT. 


175 


of  leather  or  cloth,  bricks  of  a  certain  clay,  loaves  of  a  defined 
mixture  of  meal.  Advisable  improvements  or  varieties  in 
manufacture  would  have  to  be  examined  and  accepted  by  the 
trade  guild  :  when  so  accepted,  they  would  be  announced  in 
public  reports ;  and  all  puffery  and  self-proclamation,  on  the 
part  of  tradesmen,  absolutely  forbidden,  as  much  as  the  nmk- 
ing  of  any  other  kind  of  noise  or  disturbance. 

But  observe,  this  law  is  only  to  have  force  over  tradesmen 
whom  I  suppose  to  have  joined  voluntarily  in  carrying  out  a 
better  system  of  commerce.  Outside  of  their  guild,  they 
would  have  to  leave  the  rogue  to  puff  and  cheat  as  he  chose, 
and  the  public  to  be  gulled  as  they  chose.  All  that  is  neces- 
sary is  that  the  said  public  should  clearly  know  the  shops  in 
which  they  could  get  warranted  articles  ;  and,  as  clearly,  those 
in  which  they  bought  at  their  own  risk. 

And  the  above-named  penalty  of  confiscation  of  goods 
should  of  course  be  enforced  only  against  dishonest  members 
of  the  trade  guild.  If  people  chose  to  buy  of  those  who  had 
openly  refused  to  join  an  honest  society,  they  should  be  per- 
mitted to  do  so  at  their  pleasure  and  peril :  and  this  for  two 
reasons ;  the  first,  that  it  is  always  necessary,  in  enacting 
strict  law,  to  leave  some  safety  valve  for  outlet  of  irrepressible 
vice  (nearly  all  the  stern  lawgivers  of  old  time  erred  by  over- 
sight in  this  ;  so  that  the  morbid  elements  of  the  State,  which 
it  should  be  allowed  to  get  rid  of  in  a  cutaneous  and  openly 
curable  manner,  were  thrown  inwards,  and  corrupted  its  con- 
stitution, and  broke  all  down)  ;  the  second,  that  operations  of 
trade  and  manufacture  conducted  under  and  guarded  by  se- 
vere law,  ought  always  to  be  subject  to  the  stimulus  of  such 
erratic  external  ingenuity  as  cannot  be  tested  by  law,  or  would 
be  hindered  from  its  full  exercise  by  the  dread  of  it ;  not  to 
speak  of  the  farther  need  of  extending  all  possible  indulgence 
to  foreign  traders  who  might  wish  to  exercise  their  industries 
here  without  liability  to  the  surveillance  of  our  trade  guilds. 

Farther,  while  for  all  articles  warranted  by  the  guild  (as 
above  supposed)  the  prices  should  be  annually  fixed  for  the 
trade  throughout  the  kingdom  ;  and  the  producing  workmen's 
wages  fixed,  so  as  to  define  the  master's  profits  within  limits 


176 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


admitting  only  such  variation  as  the  nature  of  the  given  arti 
cle  of  sale  rendered  inevitable  ; — yet,  in  the  production  oi 
other  classes  of  articles,  whether  by  skill  of  applied  handicraft, 
or  fineness  of  material  above  the  standard  of  the  guild,  attain- 
ing, necessarily,  values  above  its  assigned  prices,  every  firm 
should  be  left  free  to  make  its  own  independent  efforts  and 
arrangements  wdth  its  workmen,  subject  always  to  the  same 
penalty,  if  it  could  be  proved  to  have  consistently  described 
or  offered  anything  to  the  public  for  what  it  was  not :  and 
finally,  the  state  of  the  affairs  of  every  firm  should  be  annually 
reported  to  the  guild,  and  its  books  laid  open  to  inspection, 
for  guidance  in  the  regulation  of  prices  in  the  subsequent 
year  ;  and  any  firm  wrhose  liabilities  exceeded  its  assets  by  a 
hundred  pounds  should  be  forthwith  declared  bankrupt.  And 
I  will  anticipate  what  I  have  to  say  in  succeeding  letters  so 
far  as  to  tell  you  that  I  would  have  this  condition  extend  to 
every  firm  in  the  country,  large  or  small,  and  of  whatever 
rank  in  business.  And  thus  you  perceive,  my  friend,  I  shall 
not  have  to  trouble  you  or  myself  much  with  deliberations  re- 
specting commercial  "  panics,"  nor  to  propose  legislative  cures 
for  them,  by  any  laxatives  or  purgatives  of  paper  currency,  or 
any  other  change  of  pecuniary  diet. 


LETTER  XV. 

THE   NATURE   OF  THEFT   BY   UNJUST   PROFITS.  CRIME   CAN  FINALLY 

BE  ARRESTED  ONLY  BY  EDUCATION. 

29^  March. 

The  first  methods  of  polite  robbery,  by  dishonest  manufac- 
ture, and  by  debt,  of  which  we  have  been  hitherto  speaking, 
are  easily  enough  to  be  dealt  with  and  ended,  when  once  men 
have  a  mind  to  end  them.  But  the  third  method  of  polite 
robbery,  by  dishonest  acquisition,  has  many  branches,  and  is 
involved  among  honest  arts  of  acquisition,  so  that  it  is  difficult 
to  repress  the  one  without  restraining  the  other. 

Observe,  first,  large  fortunes  cannot  honestly  be  made  by 


PERCENTAGE. 


177 


the  work  of  one  man's  hands  or  head.  If  his  work  benefits 
multitudes,  and  involves  position  of  high  trust,  it  may  be  (I 
do  not  say  that  it  is)  expedient  to  reward  him  with  great 
wealth  or  estate  ;  but  fortune  of  this  kind  is  freely  given  in 
gratitude  for  benefit,  not  as  repayment  for  labour,  Also,  men 
of  peculiar  genius  in  any  art,  if  the  public  can  enjoy  the  product 
of  their  genius,  may  set  it  at  almost  any  price  they  choose  ; 
but  this,  I  will  show  you  when  I  come  to  speak  of  art,  is  un- 
lawful on  their  part,  and  ruinous  to  their  own  powers.  Genius 
must  not  be  sold  ;  the  sale  of  it  involves,  in  a  transcendental, 
but  perfectly  true  sense,  the  guilt  both  of  simony  and  prosti- 
tution.   Your  labour  only  may  be  sold  ;  your  soul  must  not. 

Now,  by  fair  pay  for  fair  labour,  according  to  the  rank  of  it, 
a  man  can  obtain  means  of  comfortable,  or  if  he  needs  it,  re- 
fined life.  But  he  cannot  obtain  large  fortune.  Such  fortunes 
as  are  naw  the  prizes  of  commerce  can  be  made  only  in  one  of 
three  ways  : — 

1.  By  obtaining  command  over  the  labour  of  multitudes  of 
other  men,  and  taxing  it  for  our  own  profit. 

2.  By  treasure-trove, — as  of  mines,  useful  vegetable  prod- 
ucts, and  the  like, — in  circumstances  putting  them  under  our 
own  exclusive  control. 

3.  By  speculation  (commercial  gambling). 

The  two  first  of  these  means  of  obtaining  riches  are,  in  some 
forms  and  within  certain  limits,  lawful,  and  advantageous  to 
the  State.  The  third  is  entirely  detrimental  to  it  ;  for  in  all 
cases  of  profit  derived  from  speculation,  at  best,  what  one 
man  gains  another  loses  ;  and  the  net  result  to  the  State  is 
zero  (pecuniarily),  with  the  loss  of  the  time  and  ingenuity 
spent  in  the  transaction  ;  besides  the  disadvantage  involved 
in  the  discouragement  of  the  losing  party,  and  the  corrupted 
moral  natures  of  both.  This  is  the  result  of  speculation  at  its 
best.  At  its  worst,  not  only  B.  loses  what  A.  gains  (having 
taken  his  fair  risk  of  such  loss  for  his  fair  chance  of  gain),  but 
C.  and  D.,  who  never  had  any  chance  at  all,  are  drawn  in  by 
B.'s  fall,  and  the  final  result  is  that  A.  sets  up  his  carriage  on 
the  collected  sum  which  was  once  the  means  of  living  to  8 
dozen  families. 


178 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


Nor  is  this  all.  For  while  real  commerce  is  founded  on 
real  necessities  or  uses,  and  limited  by  these,  speculation,  of 
which  the  object  is  merely  gain,  seeks  to  excite  imaginary 
necessities  and  popular  desires,  in  order  to  gather  its  tempo- 
rary profit  from  the  supply  of  them.  So  that  not  only  the 
persons  who  lend  their  money  to  it  will  be  finally  robbed,  but 
the  work  done  with  their  money  will  be  for  the  most  part  use- 
less, and  thus  the  entire  body  of  the  public  injured  as  well  as  the 
persons  concerned  in  the  transaction.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
architectural  decorations  of  railways  throughout  the  kingdom, 
— representing  many  millions  of  money  for  which  no  farthing 
of  dividend  can  ever  be  forthcoming.  The  public  will  not  be 
induced  to  pay  the  smallest  fraction  of  higher  fare  to  Roches- 
ter or  Dover  because  the  ironwork  of  the  bridge  which  car- 
ries them  over  the  Thames  is  covered  with  floral  cockades, 
and  the  piers  of  it  edged  with  ornamental  cornices.  ^  All  that 
work  is  simply  put  there  by  the  builders  that  they  may  put 
the  percentage  upon  it  into  their  own  pockets ;  and,  the  rest 
of  the  money  being  thrown  into  that  floral  form,  there  is  an 
end  of  it,  as  far  as  the  shareholders  are  concerned.  Millions 
upon  millions  have  thus  been  spent,  within  the  last  twenty 
years,  on  ornamental  arrangements  of  zigzag  bricks,  black  and 
blue  tiles,  cast-iron  foliage,  and  the  like ;  of  which  millions, 
as  I  said,  not  a  penny  can  ever  return  into  the  shareholders' 
pockets,  nor  contribute  to  public  speed  or  safety  on  the  line. 
It  is  all  sunk  forever  in  ornamental  architecture,  and  (trust 
me  for  this  !)  all  that  architecture  is  bad.  As  such,  it  had  in- 
comparably better  not  have  been  built.  Its  only  result  will 
be  to  corrupt  what  capacity  of  taste  or  right  pleasure  in  such 
work  we  have  yet  left  to  us  !  And  consider  a  little,  what 
other  kind  of  result  than  that  might  have  been  attained  if  all 
those  millions  had  been  spent  usefully  :  say,  in  buying  land 
for  the  people,  or  building  good  houses  for  them,  or  (if  it  had 
been  imperatively  required  to  be  spent  decoratively)  in  laying 
out  gardens  and  parks  for  them, — or  buying  noble  works  of 
art  for  their  permanent  possession, — or,  best  of  all,  establish- 
ing frequent  public  schools  and  libraries !  Count  what  those 
lost  millions  would  have  so  accomplished  for  you  !    But  you 


PER-  CENT  A  GE. 


179 


ieft  the  affair  to  "  supply  and  demand/5  and  the  British  pub- 
lic had  not  brains  enough  to  "  demand  "  land,  or  lodging,  or 
books.  It  "demanded"  cast-iron  cockades  and  zigzag  cor- 
nices, and  is  "  supplied  "  with  them,  to  its  beatitude  for  ever 
more. 

Now,  the  theft  wre  first  spoke  of,  by  falsity  of  workmanship 
or  material,  is,  indeed,  so  far  worse  than  these  thefts  by  dis- 
honest acquisition,  that  there  is  no  possible  excuse  for  it  on 
the  ground  of  self-deception  ;  while  many  speculative  thefts 
are  committed  by  persons  who  really  mean  to  do  no  harm, 
but  think  the  system  on  the  wrhole  a  fair  one,  and  do  the  best 
they  can  in  it  for  themselves.  But  in  the  real  fact  of  the 
crime,  when  consciously  committed,  in  the  numbers  reached 
by  its  injury,  in  the  degree  of  suffering  it  causes  to  those 
whom  it  ruins,  in  the  baseness  of  its  calculated  betrayal  of 
implicit  trust,  in  the  yet  more  perfect  vileness  of  the  obtain- 
ing such  trust  by  misrepresentation,  only  that  it  may  be  be- 
trayed, and  in  the  impossibility  that  the  crime  should  be 
at  all  committed,  except  by  persons  of  good  position  and 
large  knowledge  of  the  world, — what  manner  of  theft  is  so 
wholly  unpardonable,  so  inhuman,  so  contrary  to  every  law 
and  instinct  which  binds  or  animates  society  ? 

And  then  consider  farther,  how  many  of  the  carriages  that 
glitter  in  our  streets  are  driven,  and  how  many  of  the  stately 
houses  that  gleam  among  our  English  fields  are  inhabited  by 
this  kind  of  thief  ! 

I  happened  to  be  reading  this  morning  (29th  March)  some 
portions  of  the  Lent  services,  and  I  came  to  a  pause  over  the 
familiar  words,  "And  with  Him  they  crucified  two  thieves." 
Have  you  ever  considered  (I  speak  to  you  now  as  a  professing 
Christian),  why,  in  the  accomplishment  of  the  "numbering 
among  transgressors, "  the  transgressors  chosen  should  have 
been  especially  thieves — not  murderers,  nor,  as  far  as  we  know, 
sinners  by  any  gross  violence  ?  Do  you  observe  how  the  sin  of 
theft  is  again  and  again  indicated  as  the  chiefly  antagonistic  one 
to  the  law  of  Christ  ?  "  This  he  said,  not  that  he  cared  for  the 
poor,  but  because  he  was  a  thief,  and  had  the  bag  "  (of  Judas). 
And  again,  though  Barabbas  was  a  leader  of  sedition,  and  a 


180 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


murderer  besides — (that  the  popular  election  might  be  in  all 
respects  perfect) — yet  St.  John,  in  curt  and  conclusive  account 
of  him,  fastens  again  on  the  theft.  £ 4  Then  cried  they  all 
again  saying,  Not  this  man,  but  Bai»abbas.  Now  Barabbas 
was  a  robber. "  I  believe  myself  the  reason  to  be  that  theft  is 
indeed,  in  its  subtle  forms,  the  most  complete  and  excuseless 
of  human  crimes.  Sins  of  violence  usually  have  passion  to 
excuse  them  :  they  may  be  the  madness  of  moments  ;  or  they 
may  be  apparently  the  only  means  of  extrication  from  calam- 
ity. In  other  cases,  they  are  the  diseased  habits  of  lower  and 
brutified  natures.  But  theft  involving  deliberative  intellect, 
and  absence  of  passion,  is  the  purest  type  of  wilful  iniquity, 
in  persons  capable  of  doing  right.  Which  being  so,  it  seems 
to  be  fast  becoming  the  practice  of  modern  society  to  crucify 
its  Christ  indeed,  as  willingly  as  ever,  in  the  persons  of  His 
poor ;  but  by  no  means  now  to  crucify  its  thieves  beside 
Him !  It  elevates  its  thieves  after  another  fashion  ;  sets 
them  upon  an  hill,  that  their  light  may  shine  before  men,  and 
that  all  may  see  their  good  works,  and  glorify  their  Father, 
in — the  Opposite  of  Heaven. 

I  think  your  trade  parliament  will  have  to  put  an  end  to 
this  kind  of  business  somehow  !  But  it  cannot  be  done  by 
laws  merely,  where  the  interests  and  circumstances  are  so  ex- 
tended and  complex.  Nay,  even  as  regards  lower  and  more 
defined  crimes,  the  assigned  punishment  is  not  to  be  thought 
of  as  a  preventive  means  ;  but  only  as  the  seal  of  opinion  set 
by  society  on  the  fact.  Crime  cannot  be  hindered  by  punish- 
ment ;  it  will  always  find  some  shape  and  outlet,  unpunish- 
able or  unclosed.  Crime  can  only  be  truly  hindered  by  letting 
no  man  grow  up  a  criminal — by  taking  away  the  will  to  com- 
mit sin  ;  not  by  mere  punishment  of  its  commission.  Crime, 
small  and  great,  can  only  be  truly  stayed  by  education— not 
the  education  of  the  intellect  only,  wThich  is,  on  some  men, 
wasted,  and  for  others  mischievous  ;  but  education  of  the 
heart,  which  is  alike  good  and  necessary  for  all.  So,  on  this 
matter,  I  will  try  to  say  one  or  two  things  of  which  the  silence 
has  kept  my  own  heart  heavy  this  many  a  day,  in  my  next 
letter. 


EDUCATION. 


181 


LETTEK  XVI 

OF  PUBLIO  EDUCATION  IRRESPECTIVE  OF  CLASS-DISTINCTION.  IT  CON- 
SISTS ESSENTIALLY  IN  GIVING  HABITS  OF  MERCY,  AND  HABITS  OP 
TRUTH. 

March  30,  1867. 

Thank  you  for  sending  me  the  pamphlet  containing  the  ac- 
count of  the  meeting  of  clergy  and  workmen,  and  of  the  rea- 
sonings which  there  took  place.  I  cannot  promise  you  that  I 
shall  read  much  of  them,  for  the  question  to  my  mind  most 
requiring  discussion  and  explanation  is  not,  why  workmen 
don't  go  to  church,  but — why  other  people  do.  However,  this 
I  know,  that  if,  among  our  many  spiritual  teachers,  there  are 
indeed  any  who  heartily  and  literally  believe  that  the  wisdom 
they  have  to  teach,  "  is  more  precious  than  rubies,  and  all  the 
things  thou  canst  desire  are  not  to  be  compared  unto  her,"  and 
if,  so  believing,  they  will  further  dare  to  affront  their  congrega- 
tions by  the  assertion  ;  and  plainly  tell  them  they  are  not  to 
hunt  for  rubies  or  gold  any  more,  at  their  peril,  till  they  have 
gained  that  which  cannot  be  gotten  for  gold,  nor  silver  weighed 
for  the  price  thereof, — such  believers,  so  preaching,  and  re- 
fusing to  preach  otherwise  till  they  are  in  that  attended  to, 
will  never  want  congregations,  both  of  working  men,  and 
every  other  kind  of  men. 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  else  so  ill-named  as  the  phan- 
tom called  the  "  Philosopher's  "  Stone  ?  A  talisman  that  shall 
turn  base  metal  into  precious  metal,  nature  acknowledges  not ; 
nor  would  any  but  fools  seek  after  it.  But  a  talisman  to  turn 
base  souls  into  noble  souls,  nature  has  given  us  !  and  that  is 
a  "  Philosopher's  "  Stone  indeed,  but  it  is  a  stone  which  the 
builders  refuse. 

If  there  were  two  valleys  in  California  or  Australia,  with  two 
different  kinds  of  gravel  in  the  bottom  of  them  ;  and  in  the 
one  stream  bed  you  could  dig  up.  occasionally  and  by  good 
fortune,  nuggets  of  gold  ;  and  in  the  other  stream  bed,  cer- 
tainly and  without  hazard,  you  could  dig  up  little  caskets,  con- 


182 


TIME  AND  TIDE, 


taining  talismans  which  gave  length  of  clays  and  peace  ;  and 
alabaster  vases  of  precious  balms,  which  were  better  than  the 
Arabian  Dervish's  ointment,  and  made  not  only  the  eyes  to 
see,  but  the  mind  to  know,  whatever  it  wrould — I  wonder  in 
wliieh  of  the  stream  beds  there  would  be  most  diggers  ? 

"  Time  is  money  so  say  your  practised  merchants  and 
economists.  None  of  them,  however,  I  fancy,  as  they  draw 
towards  death,  find  that  the  reverse  is  true  and  that  "  money 
is  time  "  ?  Perhaps  it  might  be  better  for  them  in  the  end  if 
they  did  not  turn  so  much  of  their  time  into  money,  as  no  re- 
transformation  is  possible  !  There  are  other  things,  however, 
which  in  the  same  sense  are  money,  or  can  be  changed  into  it, 
as  well  as  time.  Health  is  money,  wit  is  money,  knowledge 
is  money  ;  and  all  your  health,  and  wit,  and  knowledge  may 
be  changed  for  gold  ;  and  the  happy  goal  so  reached,  of  a  sick, 
insane,  and  blind,  auriferous  old  age  ;  but  the  gold  cannot  be 
changed  in  its  turn  back  into  health  and  wit. 

"  Time  is  money,"  the  words  tingle  in  my  ears  so  that  I 
can't  go  on  writing.  Is  it  nothing  better,  then  ?  If  we  could 
thoroughly  understand  that  time  was— itself, — would  it  not  be 
more  to  the  purpose  ?  A  thing  of  which  loss  or  gain  was  ab- 
solute loss,  and  perfect  gain.  And  that  it  was  expedient  also 
to  buy  health  and  knowledge  with  money,  if  so  purchaseable ; 
but  not  to  buy  money  with  them  ? 

And  purchaseable  they  are,  at  the  beginning  of  life,  though 
not  at  its  close.  Purchaseable,  always,  for  others,  if  not  for 
ourselves.  You  can  buy,  and  cheaply,  life,  endless  life,  ac- 
cording to  your  Christian's  creed — (there's  a  bargain  for  you  !) 
but — long  years  of  knowledge,  and  peace,  and  power,  and 
happiness  of  love — these  assuredly,  and  irrespectively  of  any 
creed  or  question — for  all  those  desolate  and  haggard  children 
about  your  streets. 

"  That  is  not  political  economy,  however."  Pardon  me  ;  the 
all-comfortable  saying,  "What  he  layeth  out,  it  shall  be  paid 
him  again,"  is  quite  literally  true  in  matters  of  education  ;  no 
money-seed  can  be  sown  witn  so  sure  and  large  return  at  har- 
vest-time as  that  ;  only  of  this  money-seed,  more  than  of  flesh- 
seed,  it  is  utterly  true,  "  That  which  thou  sowest  is  not  quick 


EDUCATION. 


183 


ened,  except  it  die."  You  must  forget  your  money,  and  every 
other  material  interest,  and  educate  for  education's  sake  only  ! 
or  the  very  good  you  try  to  bestow  will  become  venomous, 
and  that  and  your  money  will  be  lost  together. 

And  this  has  been  the  real  cause  of  failure  in  our  efforts  for 
education  hitherto — whether  from  above  or  below.  There  is 
no  honest  desire  for  the  thing  itself.  The  cry  for  it  among 
the  lower  orders  is  because  they  think  that,  when  once  they 
have  got  it,  they  must  become  upper  orders.  There  is  a 
strange  notion  in  the  mob's  mind,  now-a-days  (including  all 
our  popular  economists  and  educators,  as  we  most  justly  may, 
under  that  brief  term,  "  mob  "),  that  everybody  can  be  upper- 
most ;  or  at  least,  that  a  state  of  general  scramble,  in  which 
everybody  in  his  turn  should  come  to  the  top,  is  a  proper  Uto- 
pian constitution  ;  and  that,  once  give  every  lad  a  good  edu- 
cation, and  he  cannot  but  come  to  ride  in  his  carriage  (the 
methods  of  supply  of  coachmen  and  footmen  not  being  con- 
templated). And  very  sternly  I  say  to  you — and  say  from  sure 
knowledge — that  a  man  had  better  not  know  how  to  read  or 
write,  than  receive  education  on  such  terms. 

The  first  condition  under  which  it  can  be  given  usefully 
is,  that  it  should  be  clearly  understood  to  be  no  means  of  get- 
ting on  in  the  world,  but  a  means  of  staying  pleasantly  in 
your  place  there.  And  the  first  elements  of  State  education 
should  be  calculated  equally  for  the  advantage  of  every  order 
of  person  composing  the  State.  From  the  lowest  to  the 
highest  class,  every  child  born  in  this  island  should  be  required 
by  law  to  receive  these  general  elements  of  human  discipline, 
and  to  be  baptized — not  with  a  drop  of  water  on  its  forehead 
■ — but  in  the  cloud  and  sea  of  heavenly  wisdom  and  of  earthly 
power. 

And  the  elements  of  this  general  State  education  should  be 
briefly  these  : 

First. — The  body  must  be  made  as  beautiful  and  perfect  in 
its  youth  as  it  can  be,  wholly  irrespective  of  ulterior  purpose. 
If  you  mean  afterwards  to  set  the  creature  to  business  which 
will  degrade  its  body  and  shorten  its  life,  first,  I  should  say, 
simply, — you  had  better  let  such  business  alone  ; — but  if 


184 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


you  must  have  it  clone,  somehow,  yet  let  the  living  creature 
whom  you  mean  to  kill,  get  the  full  strength  of  its  body  first, 
and  taste  the  joy  and  bear  the  beauty  of  youth.  After  that, 
poison  it,  if  you  will.  Economically,  the  arrangement  is  a 
wiser  one,  for  it  will  take  longer  in  the  killing  than  if  you  be- 
gan with  it  younger  ;  and  you  will  get  an  excess  of  work  out 
of  it  which  will  more  than  pay  for  its  training. 

Therefore,  first  teach — as  I  said  in  the  preface  to  Unto 
this  Last — "  The  Laws  of  Health,  and  exercises  enjoined  by 
them  ; "  and  to  this  end  your  schools  must  be  in  fresh  coun- 
try, and  amidst  fresh  air,  and  have  great  extents  of  land  at- 
tached to  them  in  permanent  estate.  Hiding,  running,  all  the 
honest  personal  exercises  of  offence  and  defence,  and  music, 
should  be  the  primal  heads  of  this  bodily  education. 

Next  to  these  bodily  accomplishments,  the  two  great  men- 
tal graces  should  be  taught,  Reverence  and  Compassion  :  not 
that  these  are  in  a  literal  sense  to  be  "  taught, "  for  they  are 
innate  in  every  well-born  human  creature,  but  they  have  to 
be  developed,  exactly  as  the  strength  of  the  body  must  be,  by 
deliberate  and  constant  exercise.  I  never  understood  why 
Goethe  (in  the  plan  of  education  in  Wilhelm  Meister)  says 
that  reverence  is  not  innate,  but  must  be  taught  from  without ; 
it  seems  to  me  so  fixedly  a  function  of  the  human  spirit,  that 
if  men  can  get  nothing  else  to  reverence  they  will  worship  a 
fool,  or  a  stone,  or  a  vegetable.1  But  to  teach  reverence 
rightly  is  to  attach  it  to  the  right  persons  and  things ;  first, 
b}'  setting  over  your  youth  masters  whom  they  cannot  but 
love  and  respect ;  next,  by  gathering  for  them,  out  of  past 
history,  whatever  has  been  most  worthy,  in  human  deeds  and 
human  passion  ;  and  leading  them  continually  to  dwell  upon 
such  instances,  making  this  the  principal  element  of  emo- 
tional excitement  to  them  ;  and,  lastly,  by  letting  them  justly 
feel,  as  far  as  may  be,  the  smallness  of  their  own  powers  and 
knowledge,  as  compared  with  the  attainments  of  others. 

Compassion,  on  the  other  hand,  is  to  be  taught  chiefly  by 

1  By  steadily  preaching  against  it,  one  may  quench  reverence,  and 
bring  insolence  to  its  hefght ;  but  the  instinct  cannot  be  wholly  up- 
rooted. 


EDUCATION. 


185 


making  it  a  point  of  honour,  collaterally  with  courage,  and 
in  the  same  rank  (as  indeed  the  complement  and  evidence  of 
courage),  so  that,  in  the  code  of  unwritten  school  law,  it  shall 
be  held  as  shameful  to  have  done  a  cruel  thing  as  a  cowardly 
one.  All  infliction  of  pain  on  weaker  creatures  is  to  be  stig- 
matized as  unmanly  crime ;  and  every  possible  opportunity 
taken  to  exercise  the  youths  in  offices  of  some  practical  help, 
and  to  acquaint  them  with  the  realities  of  the  distress  which-, 
in  the  joyfulness  of  entering  into  life,  it  is  so  difficult  for 
those  who  have  not  seen  home  suffering,  to  conceive. 

Keverence,  then,  and  compassion,  we  are  to  teach  primarily, 
and  with  these,  as  the  bond  and  guardian  of  them,  truth  of 
spirit  and  word,  of  thought  and  sight.  Truth,  earnest  and 
passionate,  sought  for  like  a  treasure  and  kept  like  a  crown. 

This  teaching  of  truth  as  a  habit  will  be  the  chief  work  the 
master  has  to  do  ;  and  it  will  enter  into  all  parts  of  education. 
First,  you  must  accustom  the  children  to  close  accuracy  of 
statement ;  this  both  as  a  principle  of  honour,  and  as  an 
accomplishment  of  language,  making  them  try  always  who 
shall  speak  truest,  both  as  regards  the  fact  he  has  to  relate  or 
express  (not  concealing  or  exaggerating),  and  as  regards  the 
precision  of  the  words  he  expresses  it  in,  thus  making  truth 
((which,  indeed,  it  is)  the  test  of  perfect  language,  and  giving 
the  intensity  of  a  moral  purpose  to  the  study  and  art  of 
words  :  then  carrying  this  accuracy  into  ail  habits  of  thought 
and  observation  also,  so  as  always  to  think  of  things  as  they 
truly  are  and  to  see  them  as  they  truly  are,  as  far  as  in  us 
rests.  And  it  does  rest  much  in  our  power,  for  all  false 
thoughts  and  seeings  come  mainly  of  our  thinking  of  what  wTe 
have  no  business  with,  and  looking  for  things  we  want  to  see, 
instead  of  things  that  ought  to  be  seen. 

"  Do  not  talk  but  of  what  you  know  ;  do  not  think  but  of 
what  you  have  materials  to  think  justly  upon  ;  and  do  not 
look  for  things  only  that  you  like,  when  there  are  others  to 
be  seea  " — this  is  the  lesson  to  be  taught  to  our  youth,  and 
inbred  in  them  ;  and  that  mainly  by  our  own  example  and 
continence.  Never  teach  a  child  anything  of  which  you  are 
not  yourself  sure  ;  and,  above  all,  if  you  feel  anxious  to  force 


180 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


anything  into  its  mind  in  tender  years,  that  the  virtue  of 
youth  and  early  association  may  fasten  it  there,  be  sure  it  is 
no  lie  which  you  thus  sanctify.  There  is  always  more  to  be 
taught  of  absolute,  incontrovertible  knowledge,  open  to  its 
capacity,  than  any  child  can  learn  ;  there  is  no  need  to  teach 
it  anything  doubtful.  Better  that  it  should  be  ignorant  of  a 
thousand  truths,  than  have  consecrated  in  its  heart  a  single  lie. 

And  for  this,  as  well  as  for  many  other  reasons,  the  princi- 
pal subjects  of  education,  after  history,  ought  to  be  natural 
science  and  mathematics  ;  but  with  respect  to  these  studies, 
your  schools  will  require  to  be  divided  into  three  groups  ;  one 
for  children  who  Avill  probably  have  to  live  in  cities,  one  for 
those  who  will  live  in  the  country,  and  one  for  those  who  will 
live  at  sea  ;  the  schools  for  these  last,  of  course,  being  always 
placed  on  the  coast.  And  for  children  whose  life  is  to  be  in 
cities,  the  subjects  of  study  should  be,  as  far  as  their  disposi- 
tion will  allow  of  it,  mathematics  and  the  arts  ;  for  children 
who  are  to  live  in  the  country,  natural  history  of  birds,  in- 
sects, and  plants,  together  with  agriculture  taught  practically  ; 
and  for  children  who  are  to  be  seamen,  physical  geography, 
astronomy,  and  the  natural  history  of  sea  fish  and  sea  birds. 

This,  then,  being  the  general  course  and  material  of  educa- 
tion for  all  children,  observe  farther  that  in  the  preface  to 
Unto  this  Last  I  said  that  every  child,  besides  passing  through 
this  course,  was  at  school  to  learn  "  the  calling  by  which  it 
was  to  live."  And  it  may  perhaps  appear  to  you  that  after,  or 
even  in  the  early  stages  of  education  such  as  this  above  de- 
scribed, there  are  many  callings  which,  however  much  called 
to  them,  the  children  might  not  willingly  determine  to  learn 
or  live  by.  "  Probably,"  you  may  say,  "  after  they  have 
learned  to  ride,  and  fence,  and  sing,  and  know  birds  and 
flowers,  it  will  be  little  to  their  liking  to  make  themselves  into 
tailors,  carpenters,  shoemakers,  blacksmiths,  and  the  like." 
And  I  cannot  but  agree  with  you  as  to  the  exceeding  proba- 
bility of  some  such  reluctance  on  their  part,  which  will  be  a 
very  awkward  state  of  things  indeed  (since  we  can  by  no 
means  get  on  without  tailoring  and  shoemaking),  and  one  to 
"be  meditated  upon  very  seriously  in  next  letter. 


DIFFICULTIES. 


187 


F.S. — Thank  you  for  sending  me  your  friend's  letter  about 
Gustave  Dore  ;  he  is  wrong,  however,  in  thinking  there  is  any 
good  in  those  illustrations  of  Elaine.  I  had  intended  to  speak 
of  them  afterwards,  for  it  is  to  my  mind  quite  as  significant — 
almost  as  awful — a  sign  of  what  is  going  on  in  the  midst  of 
us,  that  our  great  English  poet  should  have  suffered  his  work 
to  be  thus  contaminated,  as  that  the  lower  Evangelicals,  never 
notable  for  sense  in  the  arts,  should  have  got  their  Bibles  dis- 
honoured. Those  Elaine  illustrations  are  just  as  impure  as 
anything  else  that  Dore  has  done  ;  but  they  are  also  vapid, 
and  without  any  one  merit  whatever  in  point  of  art.  The 
illustrations  to  the  Contes  Drolatiques  are  full  of  power  and 
invention  ;  but  those  to  Elaine  are  merely  and  simply  stupid  ; 
theatrical  betises,  with  the  taint  of  the  charnel-house  on  them 
besides. 


LETTER  XVII. 

THE  RELATIONS  OF  EDUCATION  TO  POSITION  IN  LIFE. 

April  3,  1867. 

I  am  not  quite  sure  that  you  will  feel  the  awkwardness  of 
the  dilemma  I  got  into  at  the  end  of  last  letter,  as  much  as  I 
do  myself.  You  working  men  have  been  crowing  and  pea- 
cocking at  such  a  rate  lately  ;  and  setting  yourselves  forth  so 
confidently  for  the  cream  of  society,  and  the  top  of  the  world, 
that  perhaps  you  will  not  anticipate  any  of  the  difficulties 
which  suggest  themselves  to  a  thorough-bred  Tory  and  Con- 
servative, like  me.  Perhaps  you  will  expect  a  youth  properly 
educated — a  good  rider — musician — and  well-grounded  scholar 
in  natural  philosophy,  to  think  it  a  step  of  promotion  when 
he  has  to  go  and  be  made  a  tailor  of,  or  a  coalheaver  ?  If  you 
do,  I  should  very  willingly  admit  that  you  might  be  right, 
and  go  on  to  the  farther  development  of  my  notions  without 
pausing  at  this  stumbling-block,  were  it  not  that,  unluckily, 
all  the  wisest  men  whose  sayings  I  ever  heard  or  read,  agree 
in  expressing  (one  way  or  another)  just  such  contempt,  for 


188 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


those  useful  occupations,  as  I  dread  on  the  part  of  my  fool- 
ishly refined  scholars.  Shakspeare  and  Chaucer, — Dante  and 
Virgil, — Horace  and  Pindar, — Homer,  iEschylus,  and  Plato, 
— all  the  men  of  any  age  or  country  who  seem  to  have  had 
Heaven's  music  on  their  lips,  agree  in  their  scorn  of  mechanic 
life.  And  I  imagine  that  the  feeling  of  prudent  Englishmen, 
and  sensible  as  well  as  sensitive  Englishwomen,  on  reading 
my  last  letter — would  mostly  be — "  Is  the  man  mad,  or  laugh- 
ing at  us,  to  propose  educating  the  working  classes  this  way  ? 
He  could  not,  if  his  wild  scheme  were  possible,  find  a  better 
method  of  making  them  acutely  wretched. " 

It  may  be  so,  my  sensible  and  polite  friends ;  and  I  am 
heartily  willing,  as  well  as  curious,  to  hear  you  develop  your 
own  scheme  of  operative  education,  so  only  that  it  be  uni- 
versal, orderly,  and  careful.  I  do  not  say  that  I  shall  be  pre- 
pared to  advocate  my  athletics  and  philosophies  instead. 
Only,  observe  what  you  admit,  or  imply,  in  bringing  forward 
your  possibly  wiser  system.  You  imply  that  a  certain  portion 
of  mankind  must  be  employed  in  degrading  work  ;  and  that, 
to  fit  them  for  this  work,  it  is  necessary  to  limit  their  knowl- 
edge, their  active  powers,  and  their  enjoyments,  from  child- 
hood upwards,  so  that  they  may  not  be  able  to  conceive  of 
any  state  better  than  the  one  they  were  born  in,  nor  possess 
any  knowledge  or  acquirements  inconsistent  with  the  coarse- 
ness, or  disturbing  the  monotony,  of  their  vulgar  occupation. 
And  by  their  labour  in  this  contracted  state  of  mind,  we 
superior  beings  are  to  be  maintained  ;  and  always  to  be 
curtsied  to  by  the  properly  ignorant  little  girls,  and  capped 
by  the  properly  ignorant  little  boys,  whenever  we  pass  by. 

Mind,  I  do  not  say  that  this  is  not  the  right  state  of  things. 
Only,  if  it  be,  you  need  not  be  so  over-particular  about  the 
slave-trade,  it  seems  to  me.  "What  is  the  use  of  arguing  so 
pertinaciously  that  a  black  s  skull  will  hold  as  much  as  a 
white's,  when  you  are  declaring  in  the  same  breath  that  a 
white's  skull  must  not  hold  as  much  as  it  can,  or  it  will  be 
the  worse  for  him  ?  It  does  not  appear  to  me  at  all  a  pro- 
found state  of  slavery  to  be  whipped  into  doing  a  piece  of 
low  work  that  I  don't  like  ;  but  it  is  a  very  profound  state  of 


DIFFICULTIES. 


189 


slavery,  to  be  kept,  myself,  low  in  the  forehead,  that  I  may 
not  dislike  low  work. 

You  see,  my  friend,  the  dilemma  is  really  an  awkward  one, 
whichever  way  you  look  at  it.  But,  what  is  still  worse,  I  am 
not  puzzled  only,  at  this  part  of  my  scheme,  about  the  boys  I 
shall  have  to  make  workmen  of  ;  I  am  just  as  much  puzzled 
about  the  boys  I  shall  have  to  make  nothing  of  !  Grant,  that 
by  hook  or  crook,  by  reason  or  rattan,  I  persuade  a  certain 
number  of  the  roughest  ones  into  some  serviceable  business, 
and  get  coats  and  shoes  made  for  the  rest, — what  is  the  busi- 
ness of  "  the  rest "  to  be  ?  Naturally  according  to  the  exist- 
ing state  of  things,  one  supposes  that  they  are  to  belong  to 
some  of  the  gentlemanly  professions  ;  to  be  soldiers,  lawyers, 
doctors,  or  clergymen.  But  alas,  I  shall  not  want  any 
soldiers,  of  special  skill  or  pugnacity?  All  my  boys  wTill  be 
soldiers.  So  far  from  wanting  any  lawyers,  of  the  kind  that 
live  by  talking,  I  shall  have  the  strongest  possible  objection 
to  their  appearance  in  the  country.  For  doctors,  I  shall 
always  entertain  a  profound  respect ;  but  when  I  get  my 
athletic  education  established,  of  what  help  to  them  will  my 
respect  be  ?  They  will  all  starve  !  And  for  clergymen,  it  is 
true,  I  shall  have  a  large  number  of  episcopates — one  over 
every  hundred  families — (and  many  positions  of  civil  authority 
also,  for  civil  officers,  above  them  and  below),  but  all  these 
places  will  involve  much  hard  work,  and  be  anything  but 
covetable  ;  while,  of  clergymen's  usual  work,  admonition, 
theological  demonstration,  and  the  like,  I  shall  want  very 
little  done  indeed,  and  that  little  done  for  nothing  !  for  I  will 
allow  no  man  to  admonish  anybody,  until  he  has  previously 
earned  his  own  dinner  by  more  productive  work  than  ad- 
monition. 

Well,  I  wish,  my  friend,  you  would  write  me  a  word  or  two 
in  answer  to  this,  telling  me  your  own  ideas  as  to  the  proper 
issue  of  these  difficulties.  I  should  like  to  know  what  you 
think,  and  what  you  suppose  others  will  think,  before  I  tell 
you  my  own  notions  about  the  matter. 


190 


TIME  AND  TIDE, 


LETTER  XVIII. 

THE   HARMFUL  EFFECTS   OF  SERVILE  EMPLOYMENTS.  THE  POSSIBLE 

PRACTICE  AND  EXHIBITION  OF  SINCERE  HUMILITY  BY  RELIGIOUS 
PERSONS. 

April  7,  1867. 

I  have  been  waiting  these  three  clays  to  know  what  you 
would  say  to  my  last  questions  ;  and  now  you  send  me  two 
pamphlets  of  Combe's  to  read  !  I  never  read  anything  in 
spring-time  (except  the  Ai,  Ai,  on  the  "  sanguine  flower  in- 
scribed with  woe  ") ;  and  besides  if,  as  I  gather  from  your 
letter,  Combe  thinks  that  among  well-educated  boys  there 
would  be  a  per-centage  constitutionally  inclined  to  be  cobblers, 
or  looking  forward  with  unction  to  establishment  in  the  oil 
and  tallow  line,  or  fretting  themselves  for  a  flunkey's  uniform, 
nothing  that  he  could  say  would  make  me  agree  with  him.  I 
know,  as  well  as  he  does,  the  unconquerable  differences  in  the 
clay  of  the  human  creature  :  and  I  know  that,  in  the  outset, 
whatever  system  of  education  you  adopted,  a  large  number  of 
children  could  be  made  nothing  of,  and  would  necessarily  fall 
out  of  the  ranks,  and  supply  candidates  enough  for  degrada- 
tion to  common  mechanical  business,  but  this  enormous  dif- 
ference in  bodily  and  mental  capacity  has  been  mainly  brought 
about  by  difference  in  occupation,  and  by  direct  mal-treat- 
ment ;  and  in  a  few  generations,  if  the  poor  were  cared  for, 
their  marriages  looked  after,  and  sanitary  law  enforced,  a 
beautiful  type  of  face  and  form,  and  a  high  intelligence,  would 
become  all  but  universal,  in  a  climate  like  this  of  England. 
Even  as  it  is,  the  marvel  is  always  to  me,  how  the  race  resists, 
at  least  in  its  childhood,  influences  of  ill-regulated  birth, 
poisoned  food,  poisoned  air,  and  soul  neglect.  I  often  see 
faces  of  children,  as  I  walk  through  the  black  district  of  St. 
Giles's  (lying,  as  it  does,  just  between  my  own  house  and  the 
British  Museum),  which,  through  all  their  pale  and  corrupt 
misery,  recall  the  old  "  Non  Angli,"  and  recall  it,  not  by  their 
beauty,  but  by  their  sweetness  of  expression,  even  though 
signed  already  with  trace  and  cloud  of  the  coming  life, — a  life 


HUMILITY. 


191 


so  bitter  that  it  would  make  the  curse  of  the  137th  Psalm  true 
upon  our  modern  Babylon,  though  we  were  to  read  it  thus, 
"  Happy  shall  thy  children  be,  if  one  taketh  and  dasheth  them 
against  the  stones." 

Yes,  very  solemnly  I  repeat  to  you  that  in  those  worst  treated 
children  of  the  English  race,  I  yet  see  the  making  of  gentle- 
men and  gentlewomen — not  the  making  of  dog-stealers  and 
gin-drinkers,  such  as  their  parents  were  ;  and  the  child  of  the 
average  English  tradesman  or  peasant,  even  at  this  day,  well 
schooled,  will  show  no  innate  disposition  such  as  must  fetter 
him  forever  to  the  clod  or  the  counter.  You  say  that  many  a 
boy  runs  away,  or  would  run  away  if  he  could,  from  good 
positions  to  go  to  sea.  Of  course  he  does.  I  never  said  I 
should  have  any  difficulty  in  finding  sailors,  but  I  shall  in 
finding  fishmongers.  lam  at  no  loss  for  gardeners  either,  but 
what  am  I  to  do  for  greengrocers  ? 

The  fact  is,  a  great  number  of  quite  necessary  employments 
are,  in  the  accuratest  sense,  "  servile,"  that  is,  they  sink  a  man 
to  the  condition  of  a  serf,  or  unthinking  worker,  the  proper 
state  of  an  animal,  but  more  or  less  unworthy  of  men  ;  nay, 
unholy  in  some  sense,  so  that  a  day  is  made  "holy"  by  the 
fact  of  its  being  commanded,  "Thou  shalt  do  no  servile  work 
therein."  And  yet,  if  undertaken  in  a  certain  spirit,  such 
work  might  be  the  holiest  of  all.  If  there  were  but  a  thread 
or  two  of  sound  fibre  here  and  there  left  in  our  modern  relig- 
ion, so  that  the  stuff  of  it  would  bear  a  real  strain,  one  might 
address  our  two  opposite  groups  of  evangelicals  and  ritualists 
somewhat  after  this  fashion : — "  Good  friends,  these  differ- 
ences of  opinion  between  you  cannot  but  be  painful  to  your 
Christian  charity,  and  they  are  unseemly  to  us,  the  profane  ; 
and  prevent  us  from  learning  from  you  what,  perhaps,  we 
ought.  But,  as  we  read  your  Book,  we,  for  our  part,  gather 
from  it  that  you  might,  without  danger  to  your  own  souls,  set 
an  undivided  example  to  us,  for  the  benefit  of  ours.  You, 
both  of  you,  as  far  as  we  understand,  agree  in  the  necessity  of 
humility  to  the  perfection  of  your  character.  We  often  hear 
you,  of  Calvanistic  persuasion,  speaking  of  yourselves  as  '  sin- 
ful dust  and  ashes/ — would  it  then  be  inconsistent  with  your 


102 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


feelings  to  make  yourselves  into  'serviceable  '  dust  and  ashes? 
We  observe  that  of  late  many  of  our  roads  have  been  hard- 
ened and  mended  with  cinders  ;  now,  if,  in  a  higher  sense, 
you  could  allow  us  to  mend  the  roads  of  the  world  with  you 
a  little,  it  would  be  a  great  proof  to  us  of  your  sincerity, 
Suppose  only  for  a  little  while,  in  the  present  difficulty  and 
distress,  you  were  to  make  it  a  test  of  conversion  that  a  man 
should  regularly  give  Zacheus's  portion,  half  his  goods,  to  the 
poor,  and  at  once  adopt  some  disagreeable  and  despised,  but 
thoroughly  useful,  trade  ?  You  cannot  think  that  this  would 
finally  be  to  your  disadvantage  ;  you  doubtless  believe  the 
texts,  'He  that  giveth  to  the  poor  lendeth  to  the  Lord,'  and 
'He  that  would  be  the  chief  among  you,  let  him  be  your 
servant.'  The  more  you  parted  with,  and  the  lower  you 
stood,  the  greater  would  be  your  final  reward,  and  final  ex- 
altation. You  profess  to  despise  human  learning  and  worldly 
riches ;  leave  both  of  these  to  us ;  undertake  for  us  the  illit- 
erate and  ill-paid  employments  which  must  deprive  you  of  the 
privileges  of  society,  and  the  pleasures  of  luxury.  You  can- 
not possibly  preach  your  faith  so  forcibly  to  the  world  by  any 
quantity  of  the  finest  words,  as  by  a  few  such  simple  and  pain- 
ful acts  ;  and  over  your  counters,  in  honest  retail  business, 
you  might  preach  a  gospel  that  would  sound  in  more  ears  than 
any  that  was  ever  proclaimed  over  pulpit  cushions  or  taber- 
nacle rails.  And,  whatever  may  be  your  gifts  of  utterance, 
you  cannot  but  feel  (studying  St.  Paul's  Epistles  as  carefully 
as  you  do)  that  you  might  more  easily  and  modestly  emulate 
the  practical  teaching  of  the  silent  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles 
than  the  speech  or  writing  of  his  companion.  Amidst  the 
present  discomforts  of  your  brethren  you  may  surely,  with 
greater  prospect  of  good  to  them,  seek  the  title  of  Sons  of 
Consolation,  than  of  Sons  of  Thunder,  and  be  satisfied  with 
Barnabas's  confession  of  faith  (if  you  can  reach  no  farther), 
who,  '  having  land,  sold  it,  and  brought  the  money  and  laid 
it  at  the  Apostles'  feet.' 

"  To  you,  on  the  other  hand,  gentlemen  of  the  embroidered 
robe,  who  neither  despise  learning  nor  the  arts,  we  know  that 
sacrifices  such  as  these  would  be  truly  painful,  and  might 


HUMILITY. 


193 


at  first  appear  inexpedient.  But  the  doctrine  of  self-mortifi- 
cation is  not  a  new  one  to  you  :  and  we  should  be  sorry  to 
think — we  would  not,  indeed,  for  a  moment  dishonour  you  by 
thinking — that  these  melodious  chants,  and  prismatic  bright- 
nesses of  vitreous  pictures,  and  floral  graces  of  deep-wrought 
stone,  were  in  any  wise  intended  for  your  own  poor  pleasures, 
whatever  profane  attraction  they  may  exercise  on  more  fleshly  - 
minded  persons.  And  as  you  have  certainly  received  no  defi- 
nite order  for  the  painting,  carving,  or  lighting  up  of  churches, 
while  the  temple  of  the  body  of  so  many  poor  living  Christians 
is  so  pale,  so  mis-shapen,  and  so  ill-lighted ;  but  have,  on  the 
contrary,  received  very  definite  orders  for  the  feeding  and 
clothing  of  such  sad  humanity,  we  may  surely  ask  you,  not 
unreasonably,  to  humiliate  yourselves  in  the  most  complete 
way — not  with  a  voluntary,  but  a  sternly  involuntary  humility 
— not  with  a  show  of  wisdom  in  will-worship,  but  with 
practical  wisdom,  in  all  honour,  to  the  satisfying  of  the  flesh  ; 
and  to  associate  yourselves  in  monasteries  and  convents  for 
the  better  practice  of  useful  and  humble  trades.  Do  not 
burn  any  more  candles,  but  mould  some  ;  do  not  paint  any 
more  windows,  but  mend  a  fewT,  where  the  wind  comes  in,  in 
winter  time,  with  substantial  clear  glass  and  putty.  Do  not 
vault  any  more  high  roofs,  but  thatch  some  low  ones  ;  and 
embroider  rather  on  backs  which  are  turned  to  the  cold,  than 
only  on  those  which  are  turned  to  congregations.  And  you 
will  have  your  rewrard  afterwards,  and  attain,  with  al]  your 
flocks  thus  tended,  to  a  place  where  you  may  have  as  much 
gold,  and  painted  glass,  and  singing,  as  you  like." 

Thus  much,  it  seems  to  me,  one  might  say,  with  some  hope 
of  acceptance,  to  any  very  earnest  member  of  either  of  our 
two  great  religious  parties,  if,  as  I  say,  their  faith  could  stand 
a  strain.  I  have  not,  however,  based  any  of  my  imaginary 
political  arrangements  on  the  probability  of  its  doing  so  ;  and 
I  trust  only  to  such  general  good  nature  and  willingness  to 
help  each  other,  as  I  presume  may  be  found  among  men  of 
the  world  ;  to  whom  I  should  have  to  make  quite  another  sort 
of  speech,  which  I  will  endeavour  to  set  down  the  heads  of, 
for  you,  in  next  letter. 


194 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


LETTER  XIX. 

THE    GENERAL    PRESSURE    OF    EXCESSIVE    AND    IMPROPER    WORK,  IN 

ENGLISH  LIFE. 

April  10,  1867. 

I  cannot  go  on  to-day  with  the  part  of  my  subject  I  had 
proposed,  for  I  was  disturbed  by  receiving  a  letter  last  night, 
which  I  herewith  enclose  to  you,  and  of  which  I  wish  you  to 
print,  here  following,  the  parts  I  have  not  underlined  : — 

1  Phene-street,  Chelsea,  April  8, 1867. 

My  dear  E  :  It  is  long  since  you  have  heard  of  me, 

and  now  I  ask  your  patience  with  me  for  a  little.    I  have  but 

just  returned  from  the  funeral  of  my  dear,  dear  friend  , 

the  first  artist  friend  I  made  in  London — a  loved  and  prized 
one.  For  years  past  he  had  lived  in  the  very  humblest  way, 
fighting  his  battle  of  life  against  mean  appreciation  of  his 
talents,  the  wants  of  a  rising  family,  and  frequent  attacks  of 
illness,  crippling  him  for  months  at  a  time,  the  wolf  at  the 
door  meanwhile. 

But  about  two  years  since  his  prospects  brightened  *  *  * 
and  he  had  but  a  few  weeks  since  ventured  on  removal  to  a 
larger  house.  His  eldest  boy  of  seventeen  years,  a  very  in*? 
telligent  youth,  so  strongly  desired  to  be  a  civil  engineer  that 

Mr.   ,  not  being  able  to  pay  the  large  premium  required 

for  his  apprenticeship,  had  been  made  very  glad  by  the  con- 
sent of  Mr.  Penn,  of  Milwall,  to  receive  him  without  a  pre- 
mium after  the  boy  should  have  spent  some  time  at  King's 
College  in  the  study  of  mechanics.    The  rest  is  a  sad  story. 

About  a  fortnight  ago  Mr.   was  taken  ill,  and  died  last 

week,  the  doctors  say,  of  sheer  physical  exhaustion,  not  thirty- 
nine  years  old,  leaving  eight  young  children,  and  his  poor 
widow  expecting  her  confinement,  and  so  weak  and  ill  as  to 
be  incapable  of  effort.  This  youth  is  the  eldest,  and  the  other 
children  range  downwards  to  a  babe  of  eighteen  months. 
There  is  not  one  who  knew  him,  I  believe,  that  will  not  give 
cheerfully,  to  their  ability,  for  his  widow  and  children  ;  but 
such  aid  will  go  but  a  little  way  in  this  painful  ease,  but  it 


BROKEN  REEDS. 


195 


would  be  a  real  boon  to  this  poor  widow  if  some  of  her  chil- 
dren could  be  got  into  an  Orphan  Asylum.    *    *  * 

If  you  are  able  to  do  anything  I  would  send  particulars  of 

the  age  and  sex  of  the  children.  *,.*,.* 

I  remain,  dear  sir,  ever  obediently  yours, 

Fred.  J.  Shields. 

P.S. — I  ought  to  say  that  poor  has  been  quite  un- 
able to  save,  with  his  large  family  ;  and  that  they  would  be 
utterly  destitute  now,  but  for  the  kindness  of  some  with 
whom  he  was  professionally  connected. 

Now  this  case,  of  which  you  see  the  entire  authenticity,  is, 
out  of  the  many,  of  which  I  hear  continually,  a  notably  sad 
one  only  in  so  far  as  the  artist  in  question  has  died  of  distress 
while  he  was  catering  for  the  public  amusement.  Hardly  a 
week  now  passes  without  some  such  misery  coming  to  my 
knowledge  ;  and  the  quantity  of  pain,  and  anxiety  of  daily 
effort,  through  the  best  part  of  life,  ending  all  at  last  in  utter 
grief,  which  the  lower  middle  classes  in  England  are  now  suf- 
fering, is  so  great  that  I  feel  constantly  as  if  I  were  living  in 
one  great  churchyard,  with  people  all  round  me  clinging 
feebly  to  the  edges  of  the  open  graves,  and  calling  for  help, 
as  they  fall  back  into  them,  out  of  sight. 

Now  I  want  you  to  observe  here,  in  a  definite  case,  the 
working  of  your  beautiful  modern  political  economy  of  "  sup- 
ply and  demand."  Here  is  a  man  who  could  have  "  supplied" 
you  with  good  and  entertaining  art — say  for  fifty  good  years — 
if  you  had  paid  him  enough  for  his  day's  work  to  find  him  and 
his  children  peacefully  in  bread.  But  you  like  having  your 
prints  as  cheap  as  possible — you  triumph  in  the  little  that 
your  laugh  costs — you  take  all  you  can  get  from  the  man,  give 
the  least  you  can  give  to  him — and  you  accordingly  kill  him  at 
thirty-nine  ;  and  thereafter  have  his  children  to  take  care  of, 
or  to  kill  also,  whichever  you  choose  :  but  now,  observe,  you 
must  take  care  of  them  for  nothing,  or  not  at  all ;  and  what 
you  might  have  had  good  value  for,  if  you  had  given  it  when 
it  would  have  cheered  the  father's  heart,  you  now  can  have 
no  return  for  at  all,  to  yourselves  ;  and  what  you  give  to  the 


196 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


orphans,  if  it  does  not  degrade  them,  at  least  afflicts,  coming, 
not  through  their  father's  hand,  its  honest  earnings,  but  from 
strangers. 

Observe  farther,  whatever  help  the  orphans  may  receive, 
will  not  be  from  the  public  at  all.  It  will  not  be  from  those 
who  profited  by  their  father's  labours  ;  it  will  be  chiefly  from 
his  fellow-labourers  ;  or  from  persons  whose  money  would 
have  been  beneficially  spent  in  other  directions,  from  whence 
it  is  drawn  away  to  this  need,  which  ought  never  to  have  oc- 
curred— while  those  who  waste  their  money  wdthout  doing  any 
service  to  the  public,  will  never  contribute  one  farthing  to  this 
distress. 

Now  it  is  this  double  fault  in  the  help — that  it  comes  too 
late,  and  that  the  burden  of  it  falls  wholly  on  those  who  ought 
least  to  be  charged  with  it,  which  would  be  corrected  by  that 
institution  of  overseers  of  which  I  spoke  to  you  in  the  twelfth 
of  these  letters,  saying,  you  remember,  that  they  were  to  have 
farther  legal  powers,  which  I  did  not  then  specify,  but  which 
would  belong  to  them  chiefly  in  the  capacity  of  public  al- 
moners, or  help-givers,  aided  by  their  deacons,  the  reception 
of  such  help,  in  time  of  true  need,  being  not  held  disgraceful, 
but  honourable  ;  since  the  fact  of  its  reception  would  be  so 
entirely  public  that  no  impostor  or  idle  person  could  ever  ob- 
tain it  surreptitiously. 

(11th  April.)  I  was  interrupted  yesterday,  and  I  am  glad 
of  it,  for  here  happens  just  an  instance  of  the  way  in  which 
the  unjust  distribution  of  the  burden  of  charity  is  reflected  on 
general  interests  ;  I  cannot  help  what  taint  of  ungracefulness 
you  or  other  readers  of  these  letters  may  feel  that  I  incur,  in 
speaking,  in  this  instance,  of  myself.  If  I  could  speak  with 
the  same  accurate  knowledge  of  any  one  else,  most  gladly  I 
would  ;  but  I  also  think  it  right  that,  whether  people  accuse 
me  of  boasting  or  not,  they  should  know  that  I  practise  what 
I  preach.  I  had  not  intended  to  say  what  I  now  shall,  but  the 
coming  of  this  letter  last  night  just  turns  the  balance  of  the 
decision  with  me.  I  enclose  it  with  the  other ;  you  see  it  is 
one  from  my  bookseller,  Mr.  Quaritch,  offering  me  Fischer's 
work  on  the  Flora  of  Java,  and  Latour's  on  Indian  Orchidacea?, 


BROKEN  REEDS. 


197 


bound  together,  for  twenty  guineas.  Nov/,  I  am  writing  a 
book  on  botany  just  now,  for  young  people,  chiefly  on  wild 
flowers,  and  I  want  these  two  books  very  much ;  but  I  simply 
cannot  afford  to  buy  them,  because  I  sent  my  last  spare 
twenty  guineas  to  Mr.  Shields  yesterday  for  this  widow.  And 
though  you  may  think  it  not  the  affair  of  the  public  that  I 
have  not  this  book  on  Indian  flowers,  it  is  their  affair  finally, 
that  what  I  write  for  them  should  be  founded  on  as  broad 
knowledge  as  possible  ;  whatever  value  my  own  book  may  or 
may  not  have,  it  will  just  be  in  a  given  degree  worth  less  to 
them,  because  of  my  want  of  this  knowledge. 

So  again — for  having  begun  to  speak  of  myself  I  will  do  so 
yet  more  frankly — I  suppose  that  when  people  see  my  name 
down  for  a  hundred  pounds  to  the  Cruikshank  Memorial,  and 
for  another  hundred  to  the  Eyre  Defence  Fund,  they  think 
only  that  I  have  more  money  than  I  know  what  to  do  with. 
Well,  the  giving  of  those  subscriptions  simply  decides  the 
question  whether  or  no  I  shall  be  able  to  afford  a  journey  to 
Switzerland  this  year,  in  the  negative  ;  and  I  wanted  to  go, 
not  only  for  health's  sake,  but  to  examine  the  junctions  of  the 
molasse  sandstones  and  nagelfluh  with  the  Alpine  limestone, 
in  order  to  complete  some  notes  I  meant  to  publish  next 
spring  on  the  geology  of  the  great  northern  Swiss  valley  ; 
notes  which  must  now  lie  by  me  at  least  for  another  year  ;  and 
I  believe  this  delay  (though  I  say  it)  will  be  really  something 
of  a  loss  to  the  travelling  public,  for  the.  little  essay  was  in- 
tended to  explain  to  them,  in  a  familiar  way,  the  real  wonder- 
fulness  of  their  favourite  mountain,  the  Eighi ;  and  to  give 
them  some  amusement  in  trying  to  find  out  where  the  many- 
coloured  pebbles  of  it  had  come  from.  But  it  is  more  im- 
portant that  I  should,  with  some  stoutness,  assert  my  respect 
for  the  genius  and  earnest  patriotism  of  Cruikshank,  and  my 
much  more  than  disrespect  for  the  Jamaica  Committee,  than 
that  I  should  see  the  Alps  this  year,  or  get  my  essay  finished- 
next  spring  ;  but  I  tell  you  the  fact,  because  I  want  you  to 
feel  how,  in  thus  leaving  their  men  of  worth  to  be  assisted  or 
defended  only  by  those  who  deeply  care  for  them,  the  public 
more  or  less  cripple,  to  their  own  ultimate  disadvantage,  just 


198 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


the  people  who  could  serve  them  in  other  ways ;  while  the 
speculators  and  money-seekers,  who  are  only  making  their 
profit  out  of  the  said  public,  of  course  take  no  part  in  the  help 
of  anybody.  And  even  if  the  willing  bearers  could  sustain 
the  burden  anywise  adequately,  none  of  us  would  complain  ; 
but  I  am  certain  there  is  no  man,  whatever  his  fortune,  who  is 
now  engaged  in  any  earnest  offices  of  kindness  to  these  suf- 
ferers, especially  of  the  middle  class,  among  his  acquaintance, 
who  will  not  bear  me  witness  that  for  one  we  can  relieve,  we 
must  leave  three  to  perish.  I  have  left  three,  myself,  in  the 
first  three  months  of  this  year.  One  was  the  artist  Paul  Gray, 
for  whom  an  appeal  was  made  to  me  for  funds  to  assist  him 
in  going  abroad  out  of  the  bitter  English  winter.  I  had  not 
the  means  by  me,  and  he  died  a  week  afterwards.  Another 
case  was  that  of  a  widow  whose  husband  had  committed 
suicide,  for  whom  application  w7as  made  to  me  at  the  same 
time ;  and  the  third  was  a  personal  friend,  to  whom  I  refused 
a  sum  which  he  said  would  have  saved  him  from  bankruptcy. 
I  believe  six  times  as  much  would  not  have  saved  him  ;  how- 
ever, I  refused,  and  he  is  ruined. 

And  observe,  also,  it  is  not  the  mere  crippling  of  my  means 
that  I  regret.  It  is  the  crippling  of  my  temper,  and  waste  of 
my  time.  The  knowledge  of  all  this  distress,  even  when  I  can 
assist  it, — much  more  when  I  cannot, — and  the  various 
thoughts  of  what  I  can  and  cannot,  or  ought  and  ought  not, 
to  do,  are  a  far  greater  burden  to  me  that  the  mere  loss  of  the 
money.  It  is  peremptorily  not  my  business — it  is  not  my  gift, 
bodily  or  mentally,  to  look  after  other  people's  sorrow.  I  have 
enough  of  my  own  ;  and  even  if  I  had  not,  the  sight  of  pain  is 
not  good  for  me.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  bishop.  In  a  most 
literal  and  sincere  sense,  "  nolo  episcopari"  I  don't  want  to 
be  an  almoner,  nor  a  counsellor,  nor  a  Member  of  Parliament, 
nor  a  voter  for  Members  of  Parliament,  (What  would  Mr. 
Holyoake  say  to  me  if  he  knew  that  I  had  never  voted  for 
anybody  in  my  life,  and  never  mean  to  do  so  !)  I  am  essen- 
tially a  painter  and  a  leaf  dissector  ;  and  my  powers  of 
thought  are  all  purely  mathematical,  seizing  ultimate  princi- 
ples only — never  accidents  ;  a  line  is  always,  to  me,  length 


ROSE-  OA  BD  ENS. 


199 


without  breadth ;  it  is  not  a  cable  or  a  crowbar  ;  and  though 
I  can  almost  infallibly  reason  out  the  final  law  of  anything,  if 
within  reach  of  my  industry,  I  neither  care  for,  nor  can  trace, 
the  minor  exigencies  of  its  daily  appliance.  So,  in  every  way, 
I  like  a  quiet  life ;  and  I  don't  like  seeing  people  cry,  or  die  ; 
and  should  rejoice,  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  in  giving  up  the 
full  half  of  my  fortune  for  the  poor,  provided  I  knew  that  the 
public  would  make  Lord  Overstone  also  give  the  half  of  his, 
and  other  people  who  were  independent  give  the  half  of  theirs  ; 
and  then  set  men  who  were  really  fit  for  such  office  to  admin- 
ister the  fund,  and  answer  to  us  for  nobody's  perishing  inno- 
cently ;  and  so  leave  us  all  to  do  what  we  chose  with  the  rest, 
and  with  our  days,  in  peace. 

Thus  far  of  the  public's  fault  in  the  matter.  Next,  I  have 
a  word  or  two  to  say  of  the  sufferers'  own  fault — for  much  as 
I  pity  them,  I  conceive  that  none  of  them  do  perish  altogether 
innocently.    But  this  must  be  for  next  letter. 


LETTER  XX. 

OF  IMPROVIDENCE    IN  MARRIAGE  IN    THE  MIDDLE    CLASSES  ;    AND  OF 
THE  ADVISABLE  RESTRICTIONS  OF  IT. 

April  12,  1867. 

It  is  quite  as  well,  whatever  irregularity  it  may  introduce 
in  the  arrangement  of  the  general  subject,  that  yonder  sad 
letter  warped  me  away  from  the  broad  inquiry,  to  this  special- 
ity, respecting  the  present  distress  of  the  middle  classes.  For 
the  immediate  cause  of  that  distress,  in  their  own  imprudence, 
of  which  I  have  to  speak  to  you  to-day,  is  only  to  be  finally 
vanquished  by  strict  laws,  which,  though  they  have  been  many 
a  year  in  my  mind,  I  was  glad  to  have  a  quiet  hour  of  sun- 
shine for  the  thinking  over  again,  this  morning.  Sunshine 
which  happily  rose  cloudless  ;  and  allowed  me  to  meditate  my 
tyrannies  before  breakfast,  under  the  just-opened  blossoms  of 
my  orchard,  and  assisted  by  much  melodious  advice  from  the 
birds;  who  (my  gardener  having  positive  orders  never  to 


200 


TIME  AND  TIDE, 


trouble  any  of  them  in  anything,  or  object  to  their  eating  even 
my  best  pease  if  they  like  their  flavour)  rather  now  get  into  my 
way,  than  out  of  it,  when  they  see  me  about  the  walks  ;  and 
take  me  into  most  of  their  counsels  in  nest-building. 

The  letter  from  Mr.  Shields,  which  interrupted  us,  reached 
me,  as  you  see,  on  the  evening  of  the  9th  instant.  On  the 
morning  of  the  10th,  I  received  another,  which  I  herewith 
forward  to  you,  for  verification.  It  is — characteristically 
enough — dateless,  so  you  must  take  the  time  of  its  arrival  on 
my  word.  And  substituting  M.  N.  for  the  name  of  the  boy 
referred  to,  and  withholding  only  the  address  and  name  of 
the  writer,  you  see  that  it  may  be  printed  word  for  word — as 
follows  : — 

Sir, — May  I  beg  for  the  favour  of  your  presentation  to  Christ's  Hos- 
pital  for  my  youngest  son,  M.  N.  I  have  nine  children,  and  no  means 
to  educate  them.  I  ventured  to  address  you,  believing  that  my  hus- 
band's name  is  not  unknown  to  you  as  an  artist. 

Believe  me  to  remain  faithfully  yours, 

To  John  Ruskin,  Esq.  *       *  * 

Now  this  letter  is  only  a  typical  example  of  the  entire  class 
of  those  which,  being  a  governor  of  Christ's  Hospital,  I  receive, 
in  common  with  all  the  other  governors,  at  a  rate  of  about 
three  a  day,  for  a  month  or  six  weeks  from  the  date  of  our 
names  appearing  in  the  printed  list  of  the  governors  who  have 
presentations  for  the  current  year.  Having  been  a  governor 
now  some  twenty-five  years,  I  have  documentary  evidence 
enough  to  found  some  general  statistics  upon  :  from  which 
there  have  resulted  two  impressions  on  my  mind,  which  I  wish 
here  specially  to  note  to  you,  and  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  all 
the  other  governors,  if  you  could  ask  them,  would  at  once  con- 
firm what  I  say.  My  first  impression  is,  a  heavy  and  sorrow- 
ful sense  of  the  general  feebleness  of  intellect  of  that  portion 
of  the  British  public  which  stands  in  need  of  presentations  to 
Christ's  Hospital.  This  feebleness  of  intellect  is  mainly  shown 
in  the  nearly  total  unconsciousness  of  the  writers  that  anybody 
else  may  want  a  presentation,  beside  themselves.  With  the 
exception  here  and  there,  of  a  soldier's  or  a  sailor's  widow, 


ROSE-GARDENS. 


201 


hardly  one  of  them  seems  to  have  perceived  the  existence  of 
any  distress  in  the  world  but  their  own  ;  none  know  what 
they  are  asking  for,  or  imagine,  unless  as  a  remote  contingency, 
the  possibility  of  its  having  been  promised  at  a  prior  date. 
The  second  most  distinct  impression  on  my  mind  is,  that  the 
portion  of  the  British  public  which  is  in  need  of  presentations 
to  Christ's  Hospital,  considers  it  a  merit  to  have  large  families, 
with  or  without  the  means  of  supporting  them  ! 

Now  it  happened  also  (and  remember,  all  this  is  strictly 
true,  nor  in  the  slightest  particular  represented  otherwise  than 
as  it  chanced  ;  though  the  said  chance  brought  thus  together 
exactly  the  evidence  I  wanted  for  my  letter  to  you)  it  hap- 
pened, I  say,  that  on  this  same  morning  of  the  10th  April,  I 
became  accidentally  acquainted  with  a  case  of  quite  a  differ- 
ent kind  :  that  of  a  noble  girl,  who,  engaged  at  sixteen,  and 
having  received  several  advantageous  offers  since,  has  re- 
mained for  ten  years  faithful  to  her  equally  faithful  lover  ; 
while,  their  circumstances  rendering  it,  as  they  rightly  con- 
sidered, unjustifiable  in  them  to  think  of  marriage,  each  of 
them  simply  and  happily,  aided  and  cheered  by  the  other's 
love,  discharged  the  duties  of  their  own  separate  positions  in 
life. 

In  the  nature  of  things,  instances  of  this  kind  of  noble  life 
remain  more  or  less  concealed  (while  imprudence  and  error 
proclaim  themselves  by  misfortune),  but  they  are  assuredly 
not  unfrequent  in  our  English  homes.  Let  us  next  observe 
the  political  and  national  result  of  these  arrangements.  You 
leave  your  marriages  to  be  settled  by  "  supply  and  demand," 
instead  of  wholesome  law.  And  thus  among  }rour  youths  and 
maidens,  the  improvident,  incontinent,  selfish,  and  foolish 
ones  marry  whether  you  will  or  not ;  and  beget  families  of 
children,  necessarily  inheritors  in  a  great  degree  of  these  pa- 
rental dispositions  ;  and  for  whom  supposing  they  had  the 
best  dispositions  in  the  wrorld,  you  have  thus  provided,  by 
way  of  educators,  the  foolishest  fathers  and  mothers  you  could 
find  (the  only  rational  sentence  in  their  letters,  usually,  is  the 
invariable  one,  in  which  they  declare  themselves  "  incapable 
of  providing  for  their  children's  education  ").    On  the  other 


202 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


hand,  whosoever  is  wise,  patient,  unselfish,  and  pure,  among 
your  youth,  you  keep  maid  or  bachelor ;  wasting  their  best 
days  of  natural  life  in  painful  sacrifice,  forbidding  them  their 
best  help  and  best  reward,  and  carefully  excluding  their  pru- 
dence and  tenderness  from  any  offices  of  parental  duty. 

Is  this  not  a  beatific  and  beautifully  sagacious  system  for  a 
Celestial  Empire,  such  as  that  of  these  British  Isles  ? 

I  will  not  here  enter  into  any  statement  of  the  physical  laws 
which  it  is  the  province  of  our  physicians  to  explain  ;  and 
wThich  are  indeed  at  last  so  far  beginning  to  be  understood, 
that  there  is  hope  of  the  nation's  giving  some  of  the  attention 
to  the  conditions  affecting  the  race  of  man,  which  it  has  hith- 
erto bestowed  only  on  those  which  may  better  its  races  of 
cattle. 

It  is  enough,  I  think,  to  say  here  that  the  beginning  of  all 
sanitary  and  moral  law  is  in  the  regulation  of  marriage,  and 
that,  ugly  and  fatal  as  is  every  form  and  agency  of  license,  no 
licentiousness  is  so  mortal  as  licentiousness  in  marriage. 

Briefly,  then,  and  in  main  points,  subject  in  minor  ones  to 
such  modifications  in  detail  as  local  circumstances  and  char- 
acters would  render  expedient,  these  following  are  laws  such 
as  a  prudent  nation  would  institute  respecting  its  marriages. 
Permission  to  marry  should  be  the  reward  held  in  sight  of  its 
youth  during  the  entire  latter  part  of  the  course  of  their  edu- 
cation ;  and  it  should  be  granted  as  the  national  attestation 
that  the  first  portion  of  their  lives  had  been  rightfully  ful- 
filled. It  should  not  be  attainable  without  earnest  and  con- 
sistent effort,  though  put  within  the  reach  of  all  who  were 
willing  to  make  such  effort ;  and  the  granting  of  it  should  be 
a  public  testimony  to  the  fact,  that  the  youth  or  maid  to 
whom  it  was  given  had  lived  \vithin  their  proper  sphere,  a 
modest  and  virtuous  life,  and  had  attained  such  skill  in  their 
proper  handicraft,  and  in  arts  of  household  economy,  as  might 
give  well-founded  expectations  of  their  being  able  honourably 
to  maintain  and  teach  their  children. 

No  girl  should  receive  her  permission  to  marry  before  her 
17th  birthday,  nor  any  youth  before  his  21st  ;  and  it  should 
be  a  point  of  somewhat  distinguished  honour  with  both  sexes 


ROSE- GARB  ENS. 


203 


to  gain  their  permission  of  marriage  in  the  18th  and  22d 
year  ;  and  a  recognized  disgrace  not  to  have  gained  it  at  least 
before  the  close  of  their  21st  and  24th.  I  do  not  mean  that 
they  should  in  any  wise  hasten  actual  marriage  ;  but  only 
that  they  should  hold  it  a  point  of  honour  to  have  the  right 
to  marry.  In  every  year  there  should  be  two  festivals,  one 
on  the  first  of  May,  and  one  at  the  feast  of  harvest  home  in 
each  district,  at  which  festivals  their  permissions  to  marry 
should  be  given  publicly  to  the  maidens  and  youths  who  had 
won  them  in  that  half  year  ;  and  they  should  be  crowned,  the 
maids  by  the  old  French  title  of  Rosieres,  and  the  youths, 
perhaps  by  some  name  rightly  derived  from  one  supposed 
signification  of  the  word  "bachelor"  "laurel  fruit,"  and  so 
led  in  joyful  procession,  with  music  and  singing,  through  the 
city  street  or  village  lane,  and  the  day  ended  with  feasting 
of  the  poor  :  but  not  wTith  feasting  theirs,  except  quietly,  at 
their  homes. 

And  every  bachelor  and  rosiere  should  be  entitled  to  claim, 
if  they  needed  it,  according  to  their  position  in  life,  a  fixed 
income  from  the  State,  for  seven  years  from  the  day  of  their 
marriage,  for  the  setting  up  of  their  homes  ;  and  however 
rich  they  might  be  by  inheritance,  their  income  should  not 
be  permitted  to  exceed  a  given  sum,  proportioned  to  their 
rank,  for  the  seven  years  following  that  in  which  they  had  ob- 
tained their  permission  to  marry,  but  should  accumulate  in 
the  trust  of  the  State,  until  that  seventh  year,  in  which  they 
should  be  put  (on  certain  conditions)  finally  in  possession 
of  their  property  ;  and  the  men,  thus  necessarily  not  before 
their  twenty-eighth,  nor  usually  later  than  their  thirty-first 
year,  become  eligible  to  offices  of  State.  So  that  the  rich  and 
poor  should  not  be  sharply  separated  in  the  beginning  of  the 
war  of  life  ;  but  the  one  supported  against  the  first  stress  of  it 
long  enough  to  enable  them  by  proper  forethought  and  econ- 
omy to  secure  their  footing;  and  the  other  trained  somewhat 
in  the  use  of  moderate  means,  before  they  were  permitted  to 
have  the  command  of  abundant  ones.  And  of  the  sources 
from  which  these  State  incomes  for  the  married  poor  should 
be  supplied,  or  of  the  treatment  of  those  of  our  youth  whos8 


^04 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


conduct  rendered  it  advisable  to  refuse  them  permission  to 
marry,  I  defer  what  I  have  to  say  till  we  come  to  the  general 
subjects  of  taxation  and  criminal  discipline,  leaving  the  pro- 
posals made  in  this  letter  to  bear,  for  the  present,  whatever 
aspect  of  mere  romance  and  unreliable  vision  they  probably 
may,  and  to  most  readers,  such  as  they  assuredly  will.  Nor 
shall  I  make  the  slightest  effort  to  redeem  them  from  these 
imputations  ;  for  though  there  is  nothing  in  all  their  purport 
which  would  not  be  approved,  as  in  the  deepest  sense  "  prac- 
tical " — by  the  "  Spirit  of  Paradise  " — 

Which  gives  to  all  the  self -same  bent, 
Whose  lives  are  wise  and  innocent, 

—and  though  I  know  that  national  justice  in  conduct,  and 
peace  in  heart,  could  by  no  other  laws  be  so  swiftly  secured, 
I  confess  with  much  cfepeace  of  heart,  that  both  justice  and 
happiness  have  at  this  day  become,  in  England,  "  romantio 
impossibilities." 

LETTER  XXL 

OF  THE  DIGNITY  OF  THE  FOUR  FINE  ARTS  ;    AND  OF  THE  PROPER 
SYSTEM  OF  RETAIL  TRADE. 

'April  15,  1867. 

I  return  now  to  the  part  of  the  subject  at  which  I  was  inter- 
rupted— the  inquiry  as  to  the  proper  means  of  finding  persons 
willing  to  maintain  themselves  and  others  by  degrading  occu- 
pations. 

That,  on  the  whole,  simply  manual  occupations  are  degrad- 
ing, I  suppose  I  may  assume  you  to  admit ;  at  all  events,  the 
fact  is  so,  and  I  suppose  few  general  readers  will  have  any 
doubt  of  it. 1 

1  Many  of  my  working  readers  have  disputed  this  statement  eagerly, 
feeling  the  good  effect  of  work  in  themselves  ;  but  observe,  I  only  say, 
simply  or  totally  manual  work  ;  and  that,  alone,  is  degrading,  though 
often  in  measure  refreshing,  wholesome,  and  necessary.  So  it  is  highly 
necessary  and  wholesome  to  eat  sometimes ;  but  degrading  to  eat  all 


GENTILLESSE. 


205 


Granting  this,  it  follows  as  a  direct  consequence  that  it  is 
the  duty  of  all  persons  in  higher  stations  of  life,  by  every 
means  in  their  power,  to  diminish  their  demand  for  work  of 
such  kind,  and  to  live  with  as  Utile  aid  from  the  lower  trades  as 
they  can  possibly  contrive. 

I  suppose  you  see  that  this  conclusion  is  not  a  little  at 
variance  with  received  notions  on  political  economy  ?  It  is 
popularly  supposed  that  it  benefits  a  nation  to  invent  a  want. 
But  the  fact  is,  that  the  true  benefit  is  in  extinguishing  a 
want — in  living  with  as  few  wants  as  possible. 

I  cannot  tell  you  the  contempt  I  feel  for  the  common 
writers  on  political  economy,  in  their  stupefied  missing  of 
this  first  principle  of  all  human  economy— individual  or  po- 
litical— to  live,  namely,  with  as  few  wants  as  possible,  and  to 
waste  nothing  of  what  is  given  you  to  supply  them. 

This  ought  to  be  the  first  lesson  of  every  rich  man's  politi- 
cal code.  "Sir,"  his  tutor  should  early  say  to  him,  "you  are 
so  placed  in  society — it  may  be  for  your  misfortune,  it  must 
be  for  your  trial — that  you  are  likely  to  be  maintained  all 
your  life  by  the  labour  of  other  men.  You  will  have  to  make 
shoes  for  nobody,  but  some  one  will  have  to  make  a  great 
many  for  you.  You  will  have  to  dig  ground  for  nobody,  but 
some  one  will  have  to  dig  through  every  summer's  hot  day 
for  you.  You  will  build  houses  and  make  clothes  for  no  one, 
but  many  a  rough  hand  must  knead  clay,  and  many  an  elbow 
be  crooked  to  the  stitch,  to  keep  that  body  of  yours  warm 
and  fine.  Now  remember,  whatever  you  and  your  work  may 
be  worth,  the  less  your  keep  costs,  the  better.  It  does  not 
cost  money  only.  It  costs  degradation.  You  do  not  merely 
employ  these  people.  You  also  tread  upon  them.  It  cannot 
be  helped  ; — you  have  your  place,  and  they  have  theirs  ;  but 
see  that  you  tread  as  lightly  as  possible,  and  on  as  few  as 
possible.  What  food,  and  clothes,  and  lodging,  you  honestly 
need,  for  your  health  and  peace,  you  may  righteously  take. 

day,  as  to  labour  with  the  hands  all  day.  But  it  is  not  degrading  to 
think  all  day — if  you  can.  A  highly  bred  court  lady,  rightly  interested 
in  politics  and  literature,  is  a  much  finer  type  of  the  human  creature 
than  a  servant  of  all  work,  however  clever  and  honest. 


206 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


See  that  you  take  the  plainest  you  can  serve  yourself  with— 
that  you  waste  or  wrear  nothing  vainly  ;— and  that  you  employ 
no  man  in  furnishing  you  with  any  useless  luxury."  That  is 
the  first  lesson  of  Christian — or  human — economy  ;  and  de- 
pend upon  it,  my  friend,  it  is  a  sound  one,  and  has  every 
voice  and  vote  of  the  spirits  of  Heaven  and  earth  to  back  it, 
whatever  views  the  Manchester  men,  or  any  other  manner  of 
men,  may  take  respecting  "  demand  and  supply."  Demand 
what  you  deserve,  and  you  shall  be  supplied  with  it,  for  your 
good.  Demand  what  you  do  not  deserve,  and  you  shall  be 
supplied  with  something  which  you  have  not  demanded,  and 
which  Nature  perceives  that  you  deserve,  quite  to  the  contrary 
of  your  good.  That  is  the  law  of  your  existence,  and  if  you 
do  not  make  it  the  lawr  of  your  resolved  acts — so  much,  pre- 
cisely, the  vvorse  for  you  and  all  connected  with  you. 

Yet  observe,  though  it  is  out  of  its  proper  place  said  here, 
this  law  forbids  no  luxury  which  men  are  not  degraded  in 
providing.  You  may  have  Paul  Veronese  to  paint  your  ceil- 
ing, if  you  like,  or  Benvenuto  Cellini  to  make  cups  for  you. 
Bat  you  must  not  employ  a  hundred  clivers  to  find  beads  to 
stitch  over  your  sleeve.  (Did  you  see  the  account  of  the  sales 
of  the  Esterhazy  jewels  the  other  day  ?) 

And  the  degree  in  which  you  recognize  the  difference  be- 
tween these  two  kinds  of  services,  is  precisely  what  makes  the 
difference  between  your  being  a  civilized  person  or  a  bar- 
barian. If  you  keep  slaves  to  furnish  forth  your  dress — to 
glut  your  stomach — sustain  your  indolence — or  deck  your 
pride,  you  are  a  barbarian.  If  you  keep  servants,  properly 
cared  for,  to  furnish  you  with  what  you  verily  want,  and  no 
more  than  that — you  are  a  "  civil "  person — a  person  capable 
of  the  qualities  of  citizenship.  (Just  look  to  the  note  on 
Liebig's  idea  that  civilization  means  the  consumption  of  coal, 
page  87  of  the  Crown  of  "Wild  Olive,1  and  please  observe 
the  sentence  at  the  end  of  it,  which  signifies  a  good  deal  of 
what  I  have  to  expand  here, — "  Civilization  is  the  making  of 
civil  persons.") 

-Now,  farther,  observe  that  in  a  truly  civilized  and  disci. 
1  Appendix  9. 


6  EN  TIL  L  ESSE. 


207 


plined  state,  no  man  would  be  allowed  to  meddle  with  any 
material  who  did  not  know  how  to  make  the  best  of  it.  In 
other  words,  the  arts  of  working  in  wood,  clay,  stone,  and 
metal,  would  all  be  fine  arts  (working  in  iron  for  machinery 
becoming  an  entirely  distinct  business).  There  would  be  no 
joiner's  work,  no  smith's,  no  pottery  nor  stone-cutting,  so  de- 
based in  character  as  to  be  entirely  unconnected  with  the 
finer  branches  of  the  same  art ;  and  to  at  least  one  of  these 
finer  branches  (generally  in  metal  work)  every  painter  and 
sculptor  would  be  necessarily  apprenticed  during  some  years 
of  his  education.  There  would  be  room,  in  these  four  trades 
alone,  for  nearly  every  grade  of  practical  intelligence  and  pro- 
ductive imagination. 

But  it  should  not  be  artists  alone  who  are  exercised  early 
in  these  crafts.  It  would  be  part  of  my  scheme  of  physical 
education  that  every  youth  in  the  State — from  the  King's  son 
downwards — should  learn  to  do  something  finely  and  thor- 
oughly with  his  hand,  so  as  to  ]et  him  know  what  touch 
meant ;  and  what  stout  craftmanship  meant ;  and  to  inform 
him  of  many  things  besides,  wrhich  no  man  can  learn  but  by 
some  severely  accurate  discipline  in  doing.  Let  him  once 
learn  to  take  a  straight  shaving  off  a  plank,  or  draw  a  fine 
curve- without  faltering,  or  lay  a  brick  level  in  its  mortar  ;  and 
he  has  learned  a  multitude  of  other  matters  which  no  lips  of 
man  could  ever  teach  him.  He  might  choose  his  craft,  but 
whatever  it  was,  he  should  learn  it  to  some  sufficient  degree 
of  true  dexterity :  and  the  result  would  be,  in  after  life,  that 
among  the  middle  classes  a  good  deal  of  their  house  furni- 
ture would  be  made,  and  a  good  deal  of  rough  work,  more  or 
less  clumsily,  but  not  ineffectively,  got  through,  by  the  mas- 
ter himself  and  his  sons,  with  much  furtherance  of  their  gen- 
eral health  and  peace  of  mind,  and  increase  of  innocent 
domestic  pride  and  pleasure,  and  to  the  extinction  of  a  great 
deal  of  vulgar  upholstery  and  other  mean  handicraft. 

Farther.  A  great  deal  of  the  vulgarity,  and  nearly  all  the 
vice,  of  retail  commerce,  involving  the  degradation  of  persons 
occupied  in  it,  depends  simply  on  the  fact  that  their  minds 
are  always  occupied  by  the  vital  (or  rather  mortal)  question  of 


208 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


profits.  I  should  at  once  put  an  end  to  this  source  of  base* 
ness  by  making  all  retail  dealers  merely  salaried  officers  in 
the  employ  of  the  trade  guilds  ;  the  stewards,  that  is  to  say, 
of  the  saleable  properties  of  those  guilds,  and  purveyors  of 
such  and  such  articles  to  a  given  number  of  families.  A  per- 
fectly well-educated  person  might  without  the  least  degrada- 
tion hold  such  an  office  as  this,  however  poorly  paid  ;  and  it 
would  be  precisely  the  fact  of  his  being  well  educated  which 
would  enable  him  to  fulfil  his  duties  to  the  public  without  the 
stimulus  of  direct  profit.  Of  course  the  current  objection  to 
such  a  system  would  be  that  no  man,  for  a  regularly  paid 
salary,  would  take  pains  to  please  his  customers  ;  and  the 
answer  to  that  objection  is,  that  if  you  can  train  a  man  to  so 
much  unselfishness  as  to  offer  himself  fearlessly  to  the  chance 
of  being  shot,  in  the  course  of  his  daily  duty,  you  can  most 
assuredly,  if  you  make  it  also  a  point  of  honour  with  him, 
train  him  to  the  amount  of  self-denial  involved  in  looking  you 
out  with  care  such  a  piece  of  cheese  or  bacon  as  you  have 
asked  for. 

You  see  that  I  have  already  much  diminished  the  number 
of  employments  involving  degradation  ;  and  raised  the  charac- 
ter of  many  of  those  that  are  left.  There  remain  to  be  con- 
sidered the  necessarily  painful  or  mechanical  works  of  mining, 
forging,  and  the  like  :  the  unclean,  noisome,  or  paltry  manu- 
factures— the  various  kinds  of  transport — (by  merchant  ship- 
ping, etc.) — and  the  conditions  of  menial  service. 

It  will  facilitate  the  examination  of  these  if  we  put  them  for 
the  moment  aside,  and  pass  to  the  other  division  of  our  di- 
lemma, the  question,  namely,  what  kind  of  lives  our  gentle- 
men and  ladies  are  to  live,  for  whom  all  this  hard  work  is  to 
be  done. 


THE  MASTER. 


209 


LETTER  XXII 

OF  THE  NORMAL    POSITION  AND    DUTIES  OF  THE    UPPER  CLASSES. — • 
GENERAL  STATEMENT  OF  THE  LAND  QUESTION. 

April  17,  1867. 

In  passing  now  to  the  statement  of  conditions  affecting  the 
interests  of  the  upper  classes,  I  would  rather  have  addressed 
these  closing  letters  to  one  of  themselves  than  to  you,  for  it  is 
with  their  own  faults  and  needs  that  each  class  is  primarily 
concerned.  As  however,  unless  I  kept  the  letters  private,  this 
change  of  their  address  wTould  be  but  a  matter  of  courtesy  and 
form,  not  of  any  true  prudential  use ;  and  as  besides  I  am 
now  no  more  inclined  to  reticence — prudent  or  otherwise  ; 
but  desire  only  to  state  the  facts  of  our  national  economy  as 
clearly  and  completely  as  may  be,  I  pursue  the  subject  with- 
out respect  of  persons. 

Before  examining  what  the  occupation  and  estate  of  the 
upper  classes  ought,  as  far  as  may  reasonably  be  conjectured, 
finally  to  become,  it  will  be  well  to  set  down  in  brief  terms 
what  they  actually  have  been  in  past  ages  :  for  this,  in  many 
respects,  they  must  also  always  be.  The  upper  classes,  broadly 
speaking,  are  always  originally  composed  of  the  best-bred  (in 
the  merely  animal  sense  of  the  term),  the  most  energetic,  and 
most  thoughtful,  of  the  population,  who  either  by  strength  of 
arm  seize  the  land  from  the  rest,  and  make  slaves  of  them,  or 
bring  desert  land  into  cultivation,  over  which  they  have  there- 
fore, within  certain  limits,  true  personal  right ;  or  by  industry, 
accumulate  other  property,  or  by  choice  devote  themselves  to 
intellectual  pursuits,  and,  though  poor,  obtain  an  acknowl- 
edged superiority  of  position,  shown  by  benefits  conferred  in 
discovery,  or  in  teaching,  or  in  gifts  of  art.  This  is  all  in  the 
simple  course  of  the  law  of  nature  ;  and  the  proper  offices  of 
the  upper  classes,  thus  distinguished  from  the  rest,  become, 
therefore,  in  the  main  threefold  : — 

(A)  Those  who  are  strongest  of  arm  have  for  their  proper 
function  the  restraint  and  punishment  of  vice,  and  the  general 


210 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


maintenance  of  law  and  order  ;  releasing  only  from  its  original 
subjection  to  their  power  that  which  truly  deserves  to  be 
emancipated. 

(E)  Those  who  are  superior  by  forethought  and  industry, 
have  for  their  function  to  be  the  providences  of  the  foolish, 
the  weak,  and  the  idle  ;  and  to  establish  such  s}7stems  of  trade 
and  distribution  of  goods  as  shall  preserve  the  lower  orders 
from  perishing  by  famine,  or  any  other  consequence  of  their 
carelessness  or  folly,  and  to  bring  them  all,  according  to  each 
man's  capacity,  at  last  into  some  harmonious  industry. 

(C)  The  third  class,  of  scholars  and  artists,  of  course  have 
for  function  the  teaching  and  delighting  of  the  inferior  mul- 
titude. 

The  office  of  the  upper  classes,  then,  as  a  body,  is  to  keep 
order  among  their  inferiors,  and  raise  them  always  to  the 
nearest  level  with  themselves  of  which  those  inferiors  are  ca- 
pable. So  far  as  they  are  thus  occupied,  they  are  invariably 
loved  and  reverenced  intensely  by  all  beneath  them,  and 
reach,  themselves,  the  highest  types  of  human  power  and 
beauty. 

This,  then,  being  the  natural  ordinance  and  function  of 
aristocracy,  its  corruption,  like  that  of  all  other  beautiful 
things  under  the  Devil's  touch,  is  a  very  fearful  one.  Its  cor- 
ruption is,  that  those  who  ought  to  be  the  rulers  and  guides 
of  the  people,  forsake  their  task  of  painful  honourableness  ; 
seek  their  own  pleasure  and  pre-eminence  only  ;  and  use  their 
power,  subtlety,  conceded  influence,  prestige  of  ancestry,  and 
mechanical  instrumentality  of  martial  power,  to  make  the 
lower  orders  toil  for  them,  and  feed  and  clothe  them  for  noth- 
ing, and  become  in  various  ways  their  living  property,  goods, 
and  chattels,  even  to  the  point  of  utter  regardlessness  of  what- 
ever misery  these  serfs  may  suffer  through  such  insolent  domi- 
nation, or  they  themselves,  their  masters,  commit  of  crime  to 
enforce  it. 

xind  this  is  especially  likely  to  be  the  case  when  means  of 
various  and  tempting  pleasure  are  put  within  the  reach  of  the 
upper  classes  by  advanced  conditions  of  national  commerce 
and  knowledge  :  and  it  is  certain  to  be  the  case  as  soon  as  po* 


THE  MASTER. 


211 


eition  among  those  upper  classes  becomes  any  way  purchase- 
able  with  money,  instead  of  being  the  assured  measure  of 
some  kind  of  worth  (either  strength  of  hand,  or  true  wisdom 
of  conduct,  or  imaginative  gift).  It  has  been  becoming  more 
and  more  the  condition  of  the  aristocracy  of  Europe,  ever  since 
the  fifteenth  century  ;  and  is  gradually  bringing  about  its 
ruin,  and  in  that  ruin,  checked  only  by  the  power  which  here 
and  there  a  good  soldier  or  true  statesman  achieves  over  the 
putrid  chaos  of  its  vain  policy,  the  ruin  of  all  beneath  it ; 
which  can  be  arrested  only,  either  by  the  repentance  of  that 
old  aristocracy  (hardly  to  be  hoped),  or  by  the  stern  substi- 
tution of  other  aristocracy  worthier  than  it.  Corrupt  as  it 
may  be,  it  and  its  laws  together,  I  would  at  this  moment,  if  I 
could,  fasten  every  one  of  its  institutions  down  with  bands  of 
iron  and  trust  for  all  progress  and  help  against  its  tyranny 
simply  to  the  patience  and  strength  of  private  conduct.  And 
if  I  had  to  choose,  I  would  tenfold  rather  see  the  tyranny  of 
old  Austria  triumphant  in  the  old  and  new  worlds,  and  trust  to 
the  chance  (or  rather  the  distant  certainty)  of  some  day  see- 
ing a  true  Emperor  born  to  its  throne,  than,  with  every  privi- 
lege of  thought  and  act,  run  the  most  distant  risk  of  seeing 
the  thoughts  of  the  people  of  Germany  and  England  become 
like  the  thoughts  of  the  people  of  America.* 

*  My  American  friends,  of  whom  one,  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  of  Cam- 
bridge, is  the  best  I  have  in  the  world,  tell  me  I  know  nothing  about 
America.  It  may  be  so,  and  they  must  do  me  the  justice  to  observe 
that  I,  therefore,  usually  say  nothing  about  America.  But  this  I  say, 
because  the  Americans  as  a  nation  set  their  trust  in  liberty  and  in  equal- 
ity, of  which  I  detest  the  one,  and  deny  the  possibility  of  the  other ; 
and  because,  also,  as  a  nation,  they  are  wholly  undesirous  of  liest,  and 
incapable  of  it  ;  irreverent  of  themselves,*both  in  the  present  and  in 
the  future  ;  discontented  with  what  they  are,  yet  having  no  ideal  of 
anything  which  they  desire  to  become,  as  the  tide  of  the  troubled  sea, 
when  it  cannot  rest. 

Some  following  passages  in  this  letter,  containing  personal  references 
which  might,  in  permanence,  have  given  pain  or  offence,  are  now  omit- 
ted— the  substance  of  them  being  also  irrelevant  to  my  main  purpose. 
These  few  words  about  the  American  war,  with  which  they  concluded, 
are,  I  think,  worth  retaining  : — "All  methods  of  right  Government  are 
to  be  communicated  to  foreign  nations  by  perfectness  of  example  and 


212 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


But,  however  corrupted,  the  aristocracy  of  any  nation  maj 
thus  be  always  divided  into  three  great  classes.  First,  the 
landed  proprietors  and  soldiers,  essentially  one  political  body 
(for  the  possession  of  land  can  only  be  maintained  by  mili- 
tary power) ;  secondly,  the  moneyed  men  and  leaders  of  com- 
merce ;  thirdly,  the  professional  men  and  masters  in  science, 
art,  and  literature. 

And  we  were  to  consider  the  proper  duties  of  all  these,  and 
the  laws  probably  expedient  respecting  them.  Whereupon, 
in  the  outset  we  are  at  once  brought  face  to  face  with  the  great 
land  question. 

Great  as  it  may  be,  it  is  wholly  subordinate  to  those  we 
have  hitherto  been  considering.  The  laws  you  make  regard- 
ing methods  of  labour,  or  to  secure  the  genuineness  of  the 
things  produced  by  it,  affect  the  entire  moral  state  of  the  na- 
tion, and  all  possibility  of  human  happiness  for  them.  The 
mode  of  distribution  of  the  land  only  affects  their  numbers. 
By  this  or  that  law  respecting  laud,  you  decide  whether  the 
nation  shall  consist  of  fifty  or  of  a  hundred  millions.  But 
by  this  or  that  law  respecting  work,  you  decide  whether  the 
given  number  of  millions  shall  be  rogues,  or  honest  men  ; — 
shall  be  wretches,  or  happy  men.  And  the  question  of  num- 
bers is  wholly  immaterial,  compared  with  that  of  character  ; 
or  rather,  its  own  materialness  depends  on  the  prior  deter- 
mination of  character.  Make  your  nation  consist  of  knaves, 
and,  as  Emerson  said  long  ago,  it  is  but  the  case  of  any  other 
vermin — "  the  more,  the  worse."  Or,  to  put  the  matter  in 
narrower  limits,  it  is  a  matter  of  no  final  concern  to  any  par- 
ent whether  he  shall  have  two  children,  or  four  ;  but  matter 
of  quite  final  concern  whether  those  he  has,  shall,  or  shall  not, 

gentleness  of  patiently  expanded  power,  not  suddenly,  nor  at  the  bayo- 
net's point.  And  though  it  is  the  duty  of  every  nation  to  interfere,  at 
bayonet  point,  if  they  have  the  strength  to  do  so,  to  save  any  oppressed 
multitude,  or  even  individual,  from  manifest  violence,  it  is  wholly  un 
lawful  to  interfere  in  such  matter,  except  with  sacredly  pledged  limita- 
tion of  the  objects  to  be  accomplished  in  the  oppressed  person's  favour 
and  with  absolute  refusal  of  all  selfish  advantage  and  increase  of  territory 
or  of 'political  poicer  which  might  otherwise  accrue  from  the  victory.'' 


THE  MASTER. 


213 


deserve  to  be  hanged.  The  great  difficulty  in  dealing  with  the 
land  question  at  all  arises  from  the  false,  though  very  natural, 
notion  on  the  part  of  many  reformers,  and  of  large  bodies  of 
the  poor,  that  the  division  of  the  land  among  the  said  poor 
would  be  an  immediate  and  everlasting  relief  to  them.  An 
immediate  relief  it  would  be  to  the  extent  of  a  small  annual 
sum  (you  may  easily  calculate  how  little,  if  you  choose)  to 
each  of  them  ;  on  the  strength  of  which  accession  to  their 
finances,  they  would  multiply  into  as  much  extra  personality 
as  the  extra  pence  would  sustain,  and  at  that  point  be  checked 
by  starvation,  exactly  as  they  are  now. 

Any  other  form  of  pillage  would  benefit  them  only  in  lik8 
manner  ;  and  in  reality  the  difficult  part  of  the  question  re- 
specting numbers  is,  not  where  they  shall  be  arrested,  but 
what  shall  be  the  method  of  their  arrest. 

An  island  of  a  certain  size  has  standing  room  only  for  so 
many  people  ;  feeding  ground  for  a  great  many  fewer  than 
could  stand  on  it.  Keach  the  limits  of  your  feeding  ground, 
and  you  must  cease  to  multiply,  must  emigrate,  or  starve.  The 
modes  in  which  the  pressure  is  gradually  brought  to  bear  on 
the  population  depend  on  the  justice  of  your  laws  ;  but  the 
pressure  itself  must  come  at  last,  whatever  the  distribution  of 
the  land.  And  arithmeticians  seem  to  me  a  little  slow  to  re- 
mark the  importance  of  the  old  child's  puzzle  about  the  nails  in 
the  horseshoe — when  it  is  populations  that  are  doubling  them- 
selves, instead  of  farthings. 

The  essential  land  question  then  is  to  be  treated  quite  sep- 
arately from  that  of  the  methods  of  restriction  of  population. 
The  land  question  is — At  what  point  will  you  resolve  to  stop  ? 
It  is  separate  matter  of  discussion  how  you  are  to  stop 
at  it. 

And  this  essential  land  question — "  At  what  point  will  you 
stop  ? " — is  itself  twofold.  You  have  to  consider  first,  by 
what  methods  of  land  distribution  you  can  maintain  the 
greatest  number  of  healthy  persons  ;  and  secondly,  whether, 
if  by  any  other  mode  of  distribution  and  relative  ethical 
laws,  you  can  raise  their  character,  while  you  diminish  their 
numbers,  such  sacrifice  should  be  made,  and  to  what  extent  ? 


214 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


I  think  it  will  be  better,  for  clearness  sake,  to  end  this  lettei 
with  the  putting  of  these  two  queries  in  their  decisive  form, 
and  to  reserve  suggestions  of  answer  for  my  next. 


LETTER  XXIII 

OF  THE  JUST  TENURE  OF  LANDS  \  AND  THE  PROPER  FUNCTIONS 
OF  HIGH  PUELIC  OFFICERS. 

mil  April,  1867. 

I  must  repeat  to  you,  once  more,  before  I  proceed,  that  I 
only  enter  on  this  part  of  our  inquiry  to  complete  the  sequence 
of  its  system  and  explain  fully  the  bearing  of  former  conclu- 
sions, and  not  for  any  immediately  practicable  good  to  be  got 
out  of  the  investigation.  Whatever  I  have  hitherto  urged  upon 
you,  it  is  in  the  power  of  all  men  quietly  to  promote,  and  finally 
to  secure,  by  the  patient  resolution  of  personal  conduct ;  but 
no  action  could  be  taken  in  redistribution  of  land,  or  in  limit- 
ation of  the  incomes  of  the  upper  classes,  without  grave  and 
prolonged  civil  disturbance. 

Such  disturbance,  however,  is  only  too  likely  to  take  place, 
if  the  existing  theories  of  political  economy  are  allowed  cre- 
dence much  longer.  In  the  writings  of  the  vulgar  economists, 
nothing  more  excites  my  indignation  than  the  subterfuges  by 
which  they  endeavour  to  accommodate  their  pseudo-science  to 
the  existing  abuses  of  wealth  by  disguising  the  true  nature  of 
rent.  I  will  not  waste  time  in  exposing  their  fallacies,  but 
will  put  the  truth  for  you  into  as  clear  a  shape  as  I  can. 

Rent,  of  whatever  kind,  is,  briefly,  the  price  continuously 
paid  for  the  loan  of  the  property  of  another  person.  It  may 
be  too  little,  or  it  may  be  just,  or  exorbitant,  or  altogether 
unjustifiable,  according  to  circumstances.  Exorbitant  rents 
can  only  be  exacted  from  ignorant  or  necessitous  rent  payers ; 
and  it  is  one  of  the  most  necessary  conditions  of  state  economy 
that  there  should  be  clear  laws  to  prevent  such  exaction. 

I  may  interrupt  myself  for  a  moment  to  give  you  an  instance 
of  what  I  mean.  The  most  wretched  houses  of  the  poor  in  Lon- 


LANDMARKS. 


215 


don  often  pay  ten  or  fifteen  per  cent,  to  the  landlord  ;  and  I 
have  known  an  instance  of  sanitary  legislation  being  hindered, 
to  the  loss  of  many  hundreds  of  lives,  in  order  that  the  rents 
of  a  nobleman,  derived  from  the  necessities  of  the  poor,  might 
not  be  diminished.  And  it  is  a  curious  thing  to  me  to  see 
Mr.  J.  S.  Mill  foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  really  afflicted  con- 
scientiously, because  he  supposes  one  man  to  have  been  un- 
justly hanged,  while  by  his  own  failure  (I  believe,  wilful  failure) 
in  stating  clearly  to  the  public  one  of  the  first  elementary  truths 
of  the  science  he  professes,  he  is  aiding  and  abetting  the  com- 
mission of  the  cruellest  possible  form  of  murder  on  many  thou- 
sands of  persons  yearly,  for  the  sake  simply  of  putting  money 
into  the  pockets  of  the  landlords.  I  felt  this  evil  so  strongly 
that  I  bought,  in  the  worst  part  of  London,  one  freehold  and 
one  leasehold  property,  consisting  of  houses  inhabited  by  the 
lowest  poor  ;  in  order  to  try  what  change  in  their  comfort  and 
'habits  I  could  effect  by  taking  only  a  just  rent,  but  that  firmly. 
The  houses  of  the  leasehold  pay  me  five  per  cent. ;  the  families 
that  used  to  have  one  room  in  them  have  now  two  ;  and  are 
more  orderly  and  hopeful  besides  ;  and  there  is  a  surplus  still 
on  the  rents  they  pay,  after  I  have  taken  my  five  per  cent., 
with  which,  if  all  goes  well,  they  w7ill  eventually  be  able  to  buy 
twelve  years  of  the  lease  from  me.  The  freehold  pays  three 
per  cent.,  with  similar  results  in  the  comfort  of  the  tenant. 
This  is  merely  an  example  of  what  might  be  done  by  firm 
State  action  in  such  matters. 

Next,  of  wholly  unjustifiable  rents.  These  are  for  things 
which  are  not,  and  which  it  is  criminal  to  consider  as,  per- 
sonal or  exchangeable  property.  Bodies  of  men,  land,  water, 
and  air,  are  the  principal  of  these  things. 

Parenthetically,  may  I  ask  you  to  observe,  that  though  a 
fearless  defender  of  some  forms  of  slavery,  I  am  no  defender 
of  the  slave  trade.  It  is  by  a  blundering  confusion  of  ideas 
between  governing  men,  and  trading  in  men,  and  by  consequent 
interference  with  the  restraint,  instead  of  only  with  the  sale, 
that  most  of  the  great  errors  in  action  have  been  caused 
among  the  emancipation  men.  I  am  prepared,  if  the  need  be 
clear  to  my  own  mind,  and  if  the  power  is  in  my  hands,  to 


216 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


throw  men  into  prison,  or  any  other  captivity — to  bind  them 
or  to  beat  them — and  force  them  for  such  periods,  as  I  may 
judge  necessary,  to  any  kind  of  irksome  labour  ;  and  on  oc- 
casion of  desperate  resistance,  to  hang  or  shoot  them.  But  I 
will  not  sell  them. 

Bodies  of  men,  or  women,  then  (and  much  more,  as  I  said 
before,  their  souls),  must  not  be  bought  or  sold.  Neither 
must  land,  nor  water,  nor  air. 

Yet  all  these  may  on  certain  terms  be  bound,  or  secured  in 
possession,  to  particular  persons  under  certain  conditions.  For 
instance,  it  may  be  proper  at  a  certain  time,  to  give  a  man  per- 
mission to  possess  land,  as  you  give  him  permission  to  marry ; 
and  farther,  if  he  wishes  it  and  works  for  it,  to  secure  to  him 
the  land  needful  for  his  life,  as  you  secure  his  wife  to  him  ; 
and  make  both  utterly  his  own,  without  in  the  least  admitting 
his  right  to  buy  other  people's  wives,  or  fields,  or  to  sell  his  own. 

And  the  right  action  of  a  State  respecting  its  land  is,  in- 
deed, to  secure  it  in  various  portions  to  those  of  its  citizens 
who  deserve  to  be  trusted  with  it,  according  to  their  respec- 
tive desires,  and  proved  capacities  ;  and  after  having  so  se- 
cured it  to  each,  to  exercise  only  such  vigilance  over  his  treat- 
ment of  it  as  the  State  must  give  also  to  his  treatment  of  his 
wife  and  servants  ;  for  the  most  part  leaving  him  free,  but 
interfering  in  cases  of  gross  mismanagement  or  abuse  of 
power.  And  in  the  case  of  great  old  families,  which  always 
ought  to  be,  and  in  some  measure,  however  decadent,  still 
truly  are,  the  noblest  monumental  architecture  of  the  king- 
dom, living  temples  of  sacred  tradition  and  hero's  religion,  so 
much  land  ought  to  be  granted  to  them  in  perpetuity  as  may 
enable  them  to  live  thereon  with  all  circumstances  of  state 
and  outward  nobleness ;  but  their  income  must  in  no  wise  be 
derived  from  the  rents  of  it,  nor  must  the}'  be  occupied  (even 
in  the  most  distant  or  suborclinately  administered  methods), 
in  the  exaction  of  rents.  That  is  not  noblemen's  work. 
Their  income  must  be  fixed,  and  paid  them  by  the  State,  as 
the  King's  is. 

So  far  from  their  land  being  to  them  a  source  of  income, 
it  should  be  on  the  whole  costly  to  them,  being  kept  over 


LANDMARKS. 


217 


great  part  of  it  in  conditions  of  natural  grace,  which  return 
no  rent  but  their  loveliness  ;  and  the  rest  made,  at  whatever 
cost,  exemplary  in  perfection  of  such  agriculture  as  de- 
velopes  the  happiest  pleasant  life  ;  agriculture  which,  as  I 
wTill  show  you  hereafter,  must  reject  the  aid  of  all  mechanism 
except  that  of  instruments  guided  solely  by  the  human  hand, 
or  by  animal,  or  directly  natural  forces  ;  and  which,  there- 
fore, cannot  compete  for  profitableness  with  agriculture  car- 
ried on  by  aid  of  machinery. 

And  now  for  the  occupation  of  this  body  of  men,  maintained 
at  lixed  perennial  cost  of  the  State. 

You  know  I  said  I  should  want  no  soldiers  of  special  skill 
or  pugnacity,  for  all  my  boys  would  be  soldiers.  But  I  as- 
suredly want  captains  of  soldiers,  of  special  skill  and  pug- 
nacity. And  also,  I  said  I  should  strongly  object  to  the  ap- 
pearance of  any  lawyers  in  my  territory.  Meaning,  however, 
by  lawyers,  people  who  live  by  arguing  about  law — not 
people  appointed  to  administer  law  ;  and  people  who  live 
by  eloquently  misrepresenting  facts — not  peojjie  appointed  to 
discover  and  plainly  represent  them. 

Therefore,  the  youth  of  this  landed  aristocracy  are  to  be 
trained  in  my  schools  to  these  two  great  callings,  not  by 
which,  but  in  which,  they  are  to  live. 

They  are  to  be  trained,  all  of  them,  in  perfect  science  of 
war,  and  in  perfect  science  of  essential  law.  And  from  their 
body  are  to  be  chosen  the  captains  and  the  judges  of  England, 
its  advocates,  and  generally  its  State  officers,  all  such  func- 
tions being  held  for  fixed  pay  (as  already  our  officers  of  the 
Church  and  army  are  paid),  and  no  function  connected  with 
the  administration  of  law  ever  paid  by  casual  fee.  And  the 
head  of  such  family  should,  in  his  own  right,  having  passed 
due  (and  high)  examination  in  the  science  of  law,  and  not 
otherwise,  be  a  judge,  law-ward  or  Lord,  having  jurisdiction 
both  in  civil  and  criminal  cases,  such  as  our  present  judges 
have,  after  such  case  shall  have  been  fully  represented  before, 
and  received  verdict  from,  a  jury,  composed  exclusively  of 
the  middle  or  lower  orders,  and  in  which  no  member  of  the 
aristocracy  should  sit.    But  from  the  decision  of  these  juries, 


218 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


or  from  the  Lord  s  sentence,  there  should  be  a  final  appeal  to 
a  tribunal,  the  highest  in  the  land,  held  solely  in  the  King's 
name,  and  over  which,  in  the  capital,  the  King  himself  should 
preside,  and  therein  give  judgment  on  a  fixed  number  of 
days  in  each  year  ;  and  in  other  places  and  at  other  times, 
Judges  appointed  by  election  (under  certain  conditions)  out 
of  any  order  of  men  in  the  State  (the  election  being  national, 
not  provincial),  and  all  causes  brought  before  these  judges 
should  be  decided,  without  appeal,  by  their  own  authority ; 
not  by  juries.  This,  then,  recasting  it  for  you  into  brief 
view,  would  be  the  entire  scheme  of  State  authorities  : — 

1.  The  King  :  exercising,  as  part  both  of  his  prerogative 
and  his  duty,  the  office  of  a  supreme  judge  at  stated  times  in 
the  central  court  of  appeal  of  his  kingdom. 

2.  Supreme  judges  appointed  by  national  election  ;  exer- 
cising sole  authority  in  courts  of  final  appeal. 

o.  Ordinary  judges,  holding  the  office  hereditarily  under 
conditions  ;  and  with  power  to  add  to  their  number  (and 
liable  to  have  it  increased  if  necessary  by  the  King's  appoint- 
ment) :  the  office  of  such  judges  being  to  administer  the 
national  laws  under  the  decision  of  juries. 

4.  State  officers  charged  with  the  direction  of  public 
agency  in  matters  of  public  utility. 

5.  Bishops,  charged  with  offices  of  supervision  and  aid,  to 
family  by  family,  and  person  by  person. 

6.  The  officers  of  war,  of  various  ranks. 

7.  The  officers  of  public  instruction,  of  various  ranks. 

I  have  sketched  out  this  scheme  for  you  somewhat  prema- 
turely, for  I  would  rather  have  conducted  you  to  it  step  by 
step,  and  as  I  brought  forward  the  reasons  for  the  several 
parts  of  it  ;  but  it  is  on  other  grounds  desirable  that  you 
should  have  it  to  refer  to,  as  I  go  on. 

Without  depending  anywise  upon  nomenclature,  yet  hold- 
ing it  important  as  a  sign  and  record  of  the  meanings  of 
things,  I  may  tell  you  further  that  I  should  call  the  elect- 
ed supreme  Judges,  "  Princes  ;  "  the  hereditary  Judges, 
"  Lords  ;  "  and  the  officers  of  public  guidance,  "  Dukes  ;  "  and 
that  the  social  rank  of  these  persons  would  be  very  closely 


LANDMARKS. 


219 


correspondent  to  that  implied  by  such  titles  under  our  pres- 
ent constitution  ;  only  much  more  real  and  useful.  And  in 
conclusion  of  this  letter,  I  will  but  add,  that  if  you,  or  other 
readers,  think  it  idle  of  me  to  write  or  dream  of  such  things  ; 
as  if  any  of  them  were  in  our  power,  or  within  possibility 
of  any  near  realisation,  and  above  all,  vain  to  write  of 
them  to  a  workman  at  Sunderland  :  you  are  to  remember 
what  I  told  you  at  the  beginning,  that  I  go  on  with  this  part 
of  my  subject  in  some  fulfilment  of  my  long-conceived  plan, 
too  large  to  receive  at  present  any  deliberate  execution  from 
my  failing  strength  (being  the  body  of  the  work  to  which 
Munera  Pulverw  was  intended  merely  for  an  introduction)  ; 
and  that  I  address  it  to  you  because  I  know  that  the  working 
men  of  England  must  for  some  time  be  the  only  body  to 
which  we  can  look  for  resistance  to  the  deadly  influence  of 
moneyed  power. 

I  intend,  however,  to  write  to  you  at  this  moment  one  more 
letter,  partly  explanatory  of  minor  details  necessarily  omitted 
in  this,  and  chiefly  of  the  proper  office  of  the  soldier  ;  and  then 
I  must  delay  the  completion  of  even  this  poor  task  until  after 
the  days  have  turned,  for  I  have  quite  other  work  to  do  in 
the  brightness  of  the  full -opened  spring. 

P.  S. — As  I  have  used  somewhat  strong  language,  both 
here  and  elsewhere,  of  the  equivocations  of  the  economists 
on  the  subject  of  rent,  I  had  better  refer  you  to  one  charac- 
teristic example.  You  will  find  in  paragraph  5th  and  6th  of 
Book  II,  chap.  2,  of  Mr.  Mill's  Principles  that  the  right 
to  tenure  of  land  is  based,  by  his  admission,  only  on  the  pro- 
prietor's being  its  improver. 

Without  pausing  to  dwell  on  the  objection  that  land  cannot 
be  improved  beyond  a  certain  point,  and  that,  at  the  reaching 
of  that  point,  farther  claim  to  tenure  would  cease,  on  Mr. 
Mill's  principle, — take  even  this  admission,  with  its  proper 
subsequent  conclusion,  that  "  in  no  sound  theory  of  private 
property  was  it  ever  contemplated  that  the  proprietor  of  land 
should  be  merely  a  sinecurist  quartered  on  it."  Now,  had 
that  conclusion  been  farther  followed,  it  would  have  com- 
pelled the  admission  that  all  rent  was  unjustifiable  which  nor- 


220 


TIME  AND  TIDE 


rnally  maintained  any  person  in  idleness ;  which  is  indeed  the 
whole  truth  of  the  matter.  But  Mr.  Mill  instantly  retreats 
from  this  perilous  admission  ;  and  after  three  or  four  pages 
of  discussion  (quite  accurate  for  its  part)  of  the  limits  of 
power  in  management  of  the  land  itself  (which  apply  just  as 
strictly  to  the  peasant  proprietor  as  to  the  cottier's  landlord), 
he  begs  the  whole  question  at  issue  in  one  brief  sentence, 
slipped  cunningly  into  the  middle  of  a  long  one  which  ap- 
pears to  be  telling  all  the  other  way,  and  in  which  the  fatal  as- 
sertion (of  the  right  to  rent)  nestles  itself,  as  if  it  had  been 
already  proved, — thus  I  italicise  the  unproved  assertion  in 
which  the  venom  of  the  entire  falsehood  is  concentrated. 

"Even  in  the  case  of  cultivated  land,  a  man  whom,  though 
only  one  among  millions,  the  law  permits  to  hold  thousands 
of  acres  as  his  single  share,  is  not  entitled  to  think  that  all 
this  is  given  to  him  to  use  and  abuse,  and  deal  with  it  as  if  it 
concerned  nobody  but  himself.  The  rents  or  profits  which  he 
can  obtain  from  it  are  his,  and  his  only  ;  but  with  regard  to 
the  land,  in  everything  which  he  abstains  from  doing,  he  is 
morally  bound,  and  should,  whenever  the  case  admits,  be 
legally  compelled,  to  make  his  interest  and  pleasure  consist- 
ent with  the  public  good." 

I  say,  this  sentence  in  italics  is  slipped  cunningly  into  the  long 
sentence,  as  if  it  were  of  no  great  consequence  ;  and  above  I 
have  expressed  my  belief  that  Mr.  Mill's  equivocations  on  this 
subject  are  wilful.  It  is  a  grave  accusation  ;  but  I  cannot,  by 
any  stretch  of  charity,  attribute  these  misrepresentations  to 
absolute  dulness  and  bluntness  of  brain,  either  in  Mr.  Mill  or 
his  follower,  Mr.  Fawcett.  Mr.  Mill  is  capable  of  immense  in- 
voluntary error  ;  but  his  involuntary  errors  are  usually  owing 
to  his  seeing  only  one  or  two  of  the  many  sides  of  a  thing : 
not  to  obscure  sight  of  the  side  he  does  see.  Thus,  his  "  Es- 
say on  Liberty  "  only  takes  cognisance  of  facts  that  make  for 
liberty,  and  of  none  that  make  for  restraint.  But  in  its  state- 
ment of  all  that  can  be  said  for  liberty,  it  is  so  clear  and  keen 
that  I  have  myself  quoted  it  before  now  as  the  best  authority 
on  that  side.  And  if  arguing  in  favor  of  Eent,  absolutely, 
and  with  clear  explanation  of  what  it  was,  he  had  then  defended 


THE  ROD  AND  HONEYCOMB. 


221 


it  with  all  his  might,  I  should  have  attributed  to  him  only  the 
honest  shortsightedness  of  partisanship  ;  but  when  I  find  his 
defining  sentences  full  of  subtle  entanglement  and  reserve — 
and  that  reserve  held  throughout  his  treatment  of  this  par- 
ticular subject — I  cannot,  whether  I  utter  the  suspicion  or 
not,  keep  the  sense  of  wilfulness  in  the  misrepresentation 
from  remaining  in  my  mind.  And  if  there  be  indeed  ground 
for  this  blame,  and  Mr.  Mill,  for  fear  of  fostering  political 
agitation,1  has  disguised  what  he  knows  to  be  facts  about 
rent,  I  would  ask  him  as  one  of  the  leading  members  of  the 
Jamaica  Committee,  which  is  the  greater  crime,  boldly  to 
sign  warrant  for  the  sudden  death  of  one  man,  known  to  be 
an  agitator,  in  the  immediate  outbreak  of  such  agitation,  or 
by  equivocation  in  a  scientific  work,  to  sign  warrants  for  the 
deaths  of  thousands  of  men  in  slow  misery,  for  fear  of  an  agi- 
tation which  has  not  begun  ;  and  if  begun,  would  be  carried 
on  by  debate,  not  by  the  sword  ? 


LETTER  XXIV. 

THE  OFFICE  OF  THE  SOLDIER. 

April  22,  1867. 

I  must  once  more  deprecate  your  probable  supposition  that 
I  bring  forward  this  ideal  plan  of  State  government,  either 
with  any  idea  of  its  appearing,  to  our  present  public  mind, 
practicable  even  at  a  remote  period,  or  with  any  positive  and 
obstinate  adherence  to  the  particular  form  suggested.  There 
are  no  wiser  words  among  the  many  wise  ones  of  the  most 
rational  and  keen-sighted  of  old  English  men  of  the  world, 
than  these  : — 

1 4  For  forms  of  government  let  fools  contest ; 
That  which  is  best  administered  is  best." 

1  With  at  last  the  natural  consequences  of  cowardice, — nitroglycer- 
ine and  fireballs  !  Let  the  upper  classes  speak  the  truth  about  them- 
selves boldly,  and  they  will  know  how  to  defend  themselves  fearlessly. 
It  is  equivocation  in  principle,  and  dereliction  from  duty,  which  melt 
at  last  into  tears  in  a  mob's  presence. — (Dec.  16th,  1867.) 


222 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


For,  indeed,  no  form  of  government  is  of  any  use  among  bad 
men  ;  and  any  form  will  work  in  the  hands  of  the  good  ;  but 
the  essence  of  all  government  among  good  men  is  this,  that 
it  is  mainly  occupied  in  the  production  and  recognition  of  hu- 
man worth,  and  in  the  detection  and  extinction  of  human  un- 
worthiness  ;  and  every  Government  which  produces  and  recog- 
nizes worth,  will  also  inevitably  use  the  worth  it  has  found  to 
govern  with  ;  and  therefore  fall  into  some  approximation  to 
such  a  system  as  I  have  described.  And,  as  I  told  you,  I  do 
not  contend  for  names,  nor  particular  powers — though  I  state 
those  which  seem  to  me  most  advisable  ;  on  the  contrary,  I 
know  that  the  precise  extent  of  authorities  must  be  different 
in  every  nation  at  different  times,  and  ought  to  be  so,  accord- 
ing to  their  circumstances  and  character  ;  and  all  that  I  assert 
with  confidence  is  the  necessity,  within  afterwards  definable 
limits,  of  some  such  authorities  as  these  ;  that  is  to  say, 

I.  An  observant  one  : — by  wThich  all  men  shall  be  looked 
after  and  taken  note  of. 

II.  A  helpfvl  one,  from  which  those  who  need  help  may  get 

it. 

III.  A  prudential  one,  which  shall  not  let  people  dig  in 
wrong  places  for  coal,  nor  make  railroads  where  they  are  not 
wanted.  ;  and  which  shall  also,  with  true  providence,  insist  on 
their  digging  in  right  places  for  coal,  in  a  safe  manner,  and 
making  railroads  w7here  they  are  wanted. 

IV.  A  martial  one,  which  will  punish  knaves,  and  make  idle 
persons  work. 

V.  An  instructive  one,  which  shall  tell  everybody  what  it  is 
their  duty  to  know,  and  be  ready  pleasantly  to  answer 
questions  if  anybody  asks  them. 

VI.  A  deliberate  and  decisive  one,  which  shall  judge  by  law, 
and  amend  or  make  law  ; 

VII.  An  exemplary  one,  which  shall  show  what  is  loveliest 
in  the  art  of  life. 

You  may  divide  or  name  those  several  offices  as  you  will, 
or  they  may  be  divided  in  practice  as  expediency  may  recom- 
mend ;  the  plan  I  have  stated  merely  puts  them  all  into  the 
simplest  forms  and  relations. 


THE  ROD  AND  HONEYCOMB. 


223 


You  see  I  have  just  defined  the  martial  power  as  that 
"which  punishes  knaves  and  makes  idle  persons  work."  For 
that  is  indeed  the  ultimate  and  perennial  soldiership  ;  that  is 
the  essential  warrior's  office  to  the  end  of  time.  "  -There  is 
no  discharge  in  that  war."  To  the  compelling  of  sloth,  and 
the  scourging  of  sin,  the  strong  hand  will  have  to  address 
itself  as  long  as  this  wretched  little  dusty  and  volcanic  world 
breeds  nettles,  and  spits  fire.  The  soldier's  office  at  present 
is  indeed  supposed  to  be  the  defence  of  his  country  against 
other  countries  ;  but  that  is  an  office  which — Utopian  as  you 
may  think  the  saying — will  soon  now  be  extinct.  I  say  so 
fearlessly,  though  I  say  it  with  wide  war  threatened,  at  this 
moment,  in  the  East  and  West.  For  observe  what  the  stand- 
ing of  nations  on  their  defence  really  means.  It  means  that, 
but  for  such  armed  attitude,  each  of  them  would  go  and  rob 
the  other  ;  that  is  to  say,  that  the  majority  of  active  persons 
in  every  nation  are  at  present — thieves.  I  am  very  sorry  that 
this  should  still  be  so  ;  but  it  will  not  be  so  long.  National 
exhibitions,  indeed,  will  not  bring  peace  ;  but  national  edu- 
cation will,  and  that  is  soon  coming.  I  can  judge  of  this  by 
my  own  mind,  for  I  am  myself  naturally  as  covetous  a  person 
as  lives  in  this  world,  and  am  as  eagerly-minded  to  go  and 
steal  some  things  the  French  have  got,  as  any  housebreaker 
could  be,  having  clue  to  attractive  spoons.  If  I  could  by 
military  incursion  carry  off  Paul  Veronese's  "  Marriage  in 
Cana,"  and  the  "  Venus  Victrix"  and  the  "Hours  of  St. 
Louis,"  it  would  give  me  the  profoundest  satisfaction  to  ac- 
complish the  foray  successfully  ;  nevertheless,  being  a  com- 
paratively educated  person,  I  should  most  assuredly  not  give 
myself  that  satisfaction,  though  there  were  not  an  ounce  of 
gunpowder,  nor  a  bayonet,  in  all  France.  I  have  not  the 
least  mind  to  rob  anybody,  however  much  I  may  covet  what 
they  have  got ;  and  I  know  that  the  French  =and  British  pub- 
lic may  and  will,  with  many  other  publics,  be  at  last  brought 
to  be  of  this  mind  also  ;  and  to  see  farther  that  a  nation's  real 
strength  and  happiness  do  not  depend  on  properties  and  ter* 
ritories,  nor  on  machinery  for  their  defence  ;  but  on  their 
getting  such  territory  as  they  have,  well  filled  with  none  but 


224 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


respectable  persons.  Which  is  a  way  of  infinitely  enlarging 
one's  territory,  feasible  to  every  potentate  ;  and  dependent 
no  wise  on  getting  Trent  turned,  or  Rhine-edge  reached. 

Not  but  that,  in  the  present  state  of  things,  it  may  often  be 
soldiers'  duty  to  seize  territory,  and  hold  it  strongly  ;  but 
only  from  banditti,  or  savage  and  idle  persons. 

Thus,  both  Calabria  and  Greece  ought  to  have  been  irre- 
sistibly occupied  long  ago.  Instead  of  quarrelling  with  Aus- 
tria about  Venice,  the  Italians  ought  to  have  made  a  truce 
with  her  for  ten  years,  on  condition  only  of  her  destroying  no 
monuments,  and  not  taxing  Italians  more  than  Germans  ;  and 
then  thrown  the  whole  force  of  their  army  on  Calabria,  shot 
down  every  bandit  in  it  in  a  week,  and  forced  the  peasantry 
of  it  into  honest  work  on  every  hill  side,  with  stout  and  im- 
mediate help  from  the  soldiers  in  embanking  streams,  build- 
ing walls,  and  the  like  ;  and  Italian  finance  would  have  been 
a  much  pleasanter  matter  for  the  King  to  take  account  of  by 
this  time  ;  and  a  fleet  might  have  been  floating  under  Gar- 
ganus  strong  enough  to  sweep  every  hostile  sail  out  of  the 
Adriatic,  instead  of  a  disgraced  and  useless  remnant  of  one, 
about  to  be  put  up  to  auction. 

And  similarly,  ive  ought  to  have  occupied  Greece  instantly, 
when  they  asked  us,  whether  Russia  liked  it  or  not ;  given 
them  an  English  king,  made  good  roads  for  them,  and  stout 
laws  ;  and  kept  them,  and  their  hills  and  seas,  with  righteous 
shepherding  of  Arcadian  fields,  and  righteous  ruling  of  Sala- 
miriian  wave,  until  they  could  have  given  themselves  a  Greek 
king  of  men  again  ;  and  obeyed  him,  like  men. 

April  24. 

It  is  strange  that  just  before  I  finish  work  for  this  time, 
there  comes  the  first  real  and  notable  sign  of  the  victory  of 
the  principles  I  have  been  fighting  for,  these  seven  years.  It 
is  only  a  newspaper  paragraph,  but  it  means  much.  Look  at 
the  second  colume  of  the  11th  page  of  yesterday's  Pall  Mall 
Gazette.  The  paper  has  taken  a  wonderful  fit  of  misprinting 
lately  (unless  my  friend  John  Simon  has  been  knighted  on  his 
way  to  Weimar,  which  would  be  much  too  right  and  good  a 


TEE  BOB  AND  HONEYCOMB. 


225 


thing  to  be  a  likely  one) ;  but  its  straws  of  talk  mark  which 
way  the  wind  blows  perhaps  more  early  than  those  of  any 
other  journal — and  look  at  the  question,  it  puts  in  that  page, 
"  Whether  political  economy  be  the  sordid  and  materialistic 
science  some  account  it,  or  almost  the  noblest  on  which 
thought  can  be  employed  ?  "  Might  not  you  as  well  have  de- 
termined that  question  a  little  while  ago,  friend  Public  ?  and 
known  what  political  economy  was,  before  you  talked  so  much 
about  it  ? 

But,  hark,  again — "  Ostentation,  parental  pride,  and  a  host 
of  moral"  (immoral  ?)  "  qualities  must  be  recognized  as  among 
the  springs  of  industry  ;  political  economy  should  not  ignore 
these,  but,  to  discuss  them,  it  must  abandon  its  pretentions  to 
the  precision  of  a  pure  science" 

Well  done  the  Pall  Mall  I  Had  it  written  "  Prudence  and 
parental  affection,"  instead  of  "  Ostentation  and  parental  pride," 
"  must  be  recognized  among  the  springs  of  industry,"  it  would 
have  been  still  better  ;  and  it  would  then  have  achieved  the 
expression  of  a  part  of  the  truth,  which  I  put  into  clear  terms 
in  the  first  sentence  of  Unto  this  Last,  in  the  year  1862 — 
which  it  has  thus  taken  five  years  to  get  half  way  into  the  pub- 
lic's head. 

"  Among  the  delusions  which  at  different  periods  have  pos- 
sessed themselves  of  the  minds  of  large  masses  of  the  human 
race,  perhaps  the  most  curious — certainly  the  least  creditable 
— is  the  modern  soi-disant  science  of  political  economy,  based 
on  the  idea  that  an  advantageous  code  of  social  action  may  be 
determined,  irrespectively  of  the  influence  of  social  affection." 

Look  also  at  the  definition  of  skill. 

"  Under  the  term  *  skill '  I  mean  to  include  the  united  force 
of  experience,  intellect,  and  passion,  in  their  operation  on  man- 
ual labour,  and  under  the  term  f  passion '  to  include  the  entire 
range  of  the  moral  feelings." 

I  say  half  way  into  the  public's  head,  because  you  see,  a  few 
lines  further  on,  the  Pall  Mall  hopes  for  a  pause  "  half  way 
between  the  rigidity  of  Kicardo  and  the  sentimentality  of 
Ruskin." 

With  one  hand  on  their  pocket,  and  the  other  on  their  heart! 


226 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


Be  it  so  for  the  present  ;  we  shall  see  how  long  this  statuesque 
attitude  can  be  maintained  ;  meantime,  it  chances  strangely — • 
as  several  other  things  have  chanced  while  I  was  writing  these 
notes  to  you — that  they  should  have  put  in  that  sneer  (two 
lines  before)  at  my  note  on  the  meaning  of  the  Homeric  and 
Platonic  sirens,  at  the  very  moment  when  I  was  doubting 
whether  I  would  or  would  not  tell  you  the  significance  of  the 
last  song  of  Ariel  in  the  Tempest. 

I  had  half  determined  not,  but  now  I  shall.  And  this  was 
what  brought  me  to  think  of  it — 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  called  on  Mr.  H.  C.  Sorby,  to  see 
some  of  the  results  of  an  inquiry  he  has  been  following  all  last 
year,  into  the  nature  of  the  colouring  matter  of  leaves  and 
flowers. 

You  most  probably  have  heard  (at  all  events,  may  with  lit- 
tle trouble  hear)  of  the  marvellous  power  which  chemical 
analysis  has  received  in  recent  discoveries  respecting  the  laws 
of  light. 

My  friend  showed  me  the  rainbow  of  the  rose,  and  the  rain- 
bow of  the  violet,  and  the  rainbow  of  the  hyacinth,  and  the 
rainbow  of  forest  leaves  being  born,  and  the  rainbow  of  forest 

leaves  dying. 

And,  last,  he  showed  me  the  rainbow  of  blood.  It  was  but 
the  three  hundredth  part  of  a  grain,  dissolved  in  a  drop  of 
water  :  and  it  cast  its  measured  bars,  for  ever  recognisable 
now  to  human  sight,  on  the  chord  of  the  seven  colours.  And 
no  drop  of  that  red  rain  can  now  be  shed,  so  small  as  that  the 
stain  of  it  cannot  be  known,  and  the  voice  of  it  heard  out  of 
the  ground. 

But  the  seeing  these  flower  colours,  and  the  iris  of  blood 
together  with  them,  just  while  I  was  trying  to  gather  into 
brief  space  the  right  laws  of  war,  brought  vividly  back  to  me 
my  dreaming  fancy  of  long  ago,  that  even  the  trees  of  the 
earth  were  "  capable  of  a  kind  of  sorrow,  as  they  opened  their 
innocent  leaves  in  vain  for  men  ;  and  along  the  dells  of  Eng- 
land her  beeches  cast  their  dappled  shades  only  where  the 
outlaw  drew  his  bow,  and  the  king  rode  his  careless  chase ; 
amidst  the  fair  defiles  of  the  Apennines,  the  twisted  olive- 


THE  ROD  AND  HONEYCOMB. 


227 


trunks  hid  the  ambushes  of  treachery,  and  on  their  meadows, 
day  by  day,  the  lilies  which  were  white  at  the  dawn  were 
washed  with  crimson  at  sunset." 

And  so  also  now  this  chance  word  of  the  daily  journal,  about 
the  sirens,  brought  to  my  mind  the  divine  passage  in  the  Cra- 
tylus  of  Plato,  about  the  place  of  the  dead :  — 

"And  none  of  those  who  dwell  there  desire  to  depart  thence, 
— no,  not  even  the  Sirens  ;  but  even  they,  the  seducers,  are 
there  themselves  beguiled,  and  they  who  lulled  all  men,  them- 
selves laid  to  rest — they,  and  all  others — such  sweet  songs 
doth  death  know  how  to  sing  to  them." 

So  also  the  Hebrew. 

"And  desire  shall  fail,  because  man  goeth  to  his  long  home." 
For  you  know  I  told  you  the  Sirens  were  not  pleasures,  but 
desires  ;  being  always  represented  in  old  Greek  art  as  having 
human  faces,  with  birds'  wings  and  feet,  and  sometimes  with 
eyes  upon  their  wings  ;  and  there  are  not  two  more  important 
passages  in  all  literature,  respecting  the  laws  of  labour  and 
of  life,  than  those  two  great  descriptions  of  the  Sirens  in  Homer 
and  Plato, — the  Sirens  of  death,  and  Sirens  of  eternal  life, 
representing  severally  the  earthly  and  heavenly  desires  of 
men  ;  the  heavenly  desires  singing  to  the  motion  of  circles  of 
the  spheres,  and  the  earthly  on  the  rocks  of  fatallest  shipwreck. 
A  fact  which  may  indeed  be  regarded  "sentimentally,"  but  it 
is  also  a  profoundly  important  politico- economical  one. 

And  now  for  Shakespeare's  song. 

You  will  find  if  you  look  back  to  the  analysis  of  it,  given 
in  Munera  Pulveris  that  the  whole  play  of  the  Tempest  is 
an  allegorical  representation  of  the  powers  of  true,  and  there- 
fore spiritual,  Liberty,  as  opposed  to  true,  and  therefore  car- 
nal and  brutal  Slavery.  There  is  not  a  sentence  nor  a  rhyme, 
sung  or  uttered  by  Ariel  or  Caliban,  throughout  the  play, 
which  has  not  this  undermeaning. 

Now  the  fulfilment  of  all  human  liberty  is  in  the  peaceful 
inheritance  of  the  earth,  with  its  "herb  yielding  seed,  and 
fruit  tree  yielding  fruit "  after  his  kind  ;  the  pasture,  or  arable, 
land,  and  the  blossoming,  or  wooded  and  fruited,  land  uniting 
the  final  elements  of  life  and  peace,  for  body  and  soul.  There- 


228 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


fore,  we  have  the  two  great  Hebrew  forms  of  benediction, 
"His  eyes  shall  be  red  with  wine,  and  his  teeth  white  with 
milk,"  and  again,  4 'Butter  and  honey  shall  he  eat,  that  he 
may  know  to  refuse  the  evil  and  choose  the  good."  And  as 
the  work  of  war  and  sin  has  always  been  the  devastation  of 
this  blossoming  earth,  whether  by  spoil  or  idleness,  so  the  work 
of  peace  and  virtue  is  also  that  of  the  first  day  of  Paradise, 
to  "Dress  it  and  to  keep  it."  And  that  will  always  be  the 
song  of  perfectly  accomplished  Liberty,  in  her  industry,  and 
rest,  and  shelter  from  troubled  thoughts  in  the  calm  of  the 
fields,  and  gaining,  by  migration,  the  long  summer's  day  from 
the  shortening  twilight :  — 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily ; 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

And  the  security  of  this  treasure  to  all  the  poor,  and  not  the 
ravage  of  it  down  the  valleys  of  the  Shenandoah,  is  indeed 
the  true  warrior's  work.  But,  that  they  may  be  able  to  restrain 
vice  rightly,  soldiers  must  themselves  be  first  in  virtue  ;  and 
that  they  may  be  able  to  compel  labour  sternly,  they  must 
themselves  be  first  in  toil,  and  their  spears,  like  Jonathan's  at 
Beth-aven,  enlighteners  of  the  eyes. 


LETTER  XXV. 

OF  INEVITABLE  DISTINCTION  OF  RANK,  AND  NECESSARY  SUBMISSION 
TO  AUTHORITY. — THE  MEANING  OF  PURE-HEARTEDNESS. — CON- 
CLUSION. 

I  was  interrupted  yesterday,  just  as  I  was  going  to  set  my 
soldiers  to  work ;  and  to-day,  here  comes  the  pamphlet  you 
promised  me,  containing  the  Debates  about  Church-going,  in 
which  I  find  so  interesting  a  text  for  my  concluding  letter 


hyssop. 


229 


that  I  must  still  let  my  soldiers  stand  at  ease  for  a  little  while. 
Look  at  its  twenty-fifth  page,  and  you  will  find,  in  the  speech 
of  Mr.  Thomas  (carpenter),  this  beautiful  explanation  of  the 
admitted  change  in  the  general  public  mind,  of  which  Mr. 
Thomas,  for  his  part,  highly  approves  (the  getting  out  of  the 
unreasonable  habit  of  paying  respect  to  anybody).  There 
were  many  reasons  to  Mr.  Thomas's  mind  why  the  working- 
classes  did  not  attend  places  of  worship  ;  one  was,  that  "  the 
parson  was  regarded  as  an  object  of  reverence.  In  the  little 
town  he  came  from,  if  a  poor  man  did  not  make  a  bow  to  the 
parson  he  was  a  marked  man.  This  was  no  doubt  wearing 
away  to  a  great  extent "  (the  base  habit  of  making  bows),  "  be- 
cause, the  poor  man  was  beginning  to  get  education,  and  to 
think  for  himself.  It  was  only  while  the  priest  kept  the  press 
from  him  that  he  was  kept  ignorant,  and  was  compelled  to 
bow,  as  it  were,  to  the  parson.  ...  It  was  the  case  all  over 
England.  The  clergyman  seemed  to  think  himself  something 
superior.  Now  he  (Mr.  Thomas)  did  not  admit  there  wras  any 
inferiority  "  (laughter,  audience  throughout  course  of  meeting 
mainly  in  the  right),  "except,  perhaps,  on  the  score  of  his 
having  received  a  classical  education,  which  the  poor  man  could 
not  get." 

Now,  my  dear  friend,  here  is  the  element  which  is  the  veri- 
est devil  of  all  that  have  got  into  modern  flesh  ;  this  infidelity 
of  the  nineteenth-century  St.  Thomas  in  there  being  anything 
better  than  himself,  alive  ;  coupled,  as  it  always  is,  with  the 
farther  resolution — if  unwillingly  convinced  of  the  fact — to 
seal  the  Better  living  thing  down  again  out  of  his  way,  under 
the  first  stone  handy.  I  had  not  intended,  till  we  entered  on 
the  second  section  of  our  inquiry,  namely,  into  the  influence 
of  gentleness  (having  hitherto,  you  see,  been  wholly  concerned 
writh  that  of  justice),  to  give  you  the  clue  out  of  our  dilemma 
about  equalities  produced  by  education  ;  but  by  this  speech 
of  our  superior  carpenter's,  I  am  driven  into  it  at  once,  and  it 
is  perhaps  as  well. 

The  speech  is  not,  observe,  without  its  own  root  of  truth  at 
the  bottom  of  it,  nor  at  all,  as  I  think,  ill  intended  by  the 
speaker ;  but  you  have  in  it  a  clear  instance  of  what  I  was 


230 


TIME  AJSW  TIDE. 


saying  in  the  sixteenth  of  these  letters, — that  education  loan 
desired  by  the  lower  orders  because  they  thought  it  would  make 
them  iqiper  orders,  and  be  a  leveller  and  effacer  of  distinctions. 
They  will  be  mightily  astonished,  when  they  really  get  it,  to 
find  that  it  is,  on  the  contrary,  the  fatallest  of  all  discerners 
and  enforcers  of  distinctions  ;  piercing,  even  to  the  division 
of  the  joints  and  marrow,  to  find  out  wherein  your  body  and 
soul  are  less,  or  greater,  than  other  bodies  and  souls,  and  to 
sign  deed  of  separation  with  unequivocal  seal. 

Education  is,  indeed,  of  all  differences  not  divinely  ap- 
pointed, an  instant  effacer  and  reconciler.  Whatever  is  un- 
ci ivinely  poor,  it  will  make  rich ;  whatever  is  undivinely 
maimed,  and  halt,  and  blind,  it  will  make  whole,  and  equal, 
and  seeing.  The  blind  and  the  lame  are  to  it  as  to  Dayid  at 
the  siege  of  the  Tower  of  the  Kings,  "hated  of  David's  soul." 
But  there  are  other  divinely-appointed  differences,  eternal  as 
the  ranks  of  the  everlasting  hills,  and  as  the  strength  of  their 
ceaseless  waters.  And  these,  education  does  not  do  away  with ; 
but  measures,  manifests,  and  employs. 

In  the  handful  of  shingle  which  you  gather  from  the  sea- 
beach,  which  the  indiscriminate  sea,  with  equality  of  eternal 
foam,  has  only  educated  to  be,  every  one,  round,  you  will  see 
little  difference  between  the  noble  and  mean  stones.  But  the 
jeweller's  trenchant  education  of  them  will  tell  you  another 
story.  Even  the  meanest  will  be  better  for  it,  but  the  noblest 
so  much  better  that  you  can  class  the  two  together  no  more. 
The  fair  veins  and  colours  are  all  clear  now,  and  so  stern  is 
Nature's  intent  regarding  this,  that  not  only  will  the  polish 
show  which  is  best,  but  the  best  will  take  the  most  polish. 
You  shall  not  merely  see  they  have  more  virtue  than  the 
others,  but  see  that  more  of  virtue  more  clearly ;  and  the  less 
virtue  there  is,  the  more  dimly  you  shall  see  what  there  is 
of  it. 

And  the  law  about  education,  which  is  sorrowfullest  to  vul- 
gar pride,  is  this — that  all  its  gains  are  at  compound  interest ; 
so  that,  as  our  work  proceeds,  every  hour  throws  us  farther 
behind  the  greater  men  with  whom  we  began  on  equal  terms. 
Two  children  go  to  school  hand  in  hand,  and  spell  for  half  an 


HYSSOP. 


231 


hour  over  the  same  page.  Through  all  their  lives,  never  shall 
they  spell  from  the  same  page  more.  One  is  presently  a  page 
ahead, — two  pages,  ten  pages, — and  evermore,  though  each 
toils  equally,  the  interval  enlarges — at  birth  nothing,  at  death, 
infinite. 

And  by  this  you  may  recognise  true  education  from  false. 
False  education  is  a  delightful  thing,  and  warms  you,  and 
makes  you  every  day  think  more  of  yourself.  And  true  edu- 
cation is  a  deadly  cold  thing,  with  a  Gorgon's  head  on  her 
shield,  and  makes  you  every  day  think  worse  of  yourself. 

Worse  in  two  ways,  also,  more's  the  pity.  It  is  perpetually 
increasing  the  personal  sense  of  ignorance  and  the  personal 
sense  of  fault.  And  this  last  is  the  truth  which  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  common  evangelical  notions  about  conversion,  and 
which  the  Devil  has  got  hold  of,  and  hidden,  until,  instead  of 
seeing  and  confessing  personal  ignorance  and  fault,  as  com- 
pared with  the  sense  and  virtue  of  others,  people  see  nothing 
but  corruption  in  human  nature,  and  shelter  their  own  sins 
under  accusation  of  their  race  (the  worst  of  all  assertions  of 
equality  and  fraternity).  And  so  they  avoid  the  blessed  and 
strengthening  pain  of  finding  out  wherein  they  are  fools,  as 
compared  with  other  men,  by  calling  everybody  else  a  fool 
too  ;  and  avoid  the  pain  of  discerning  their  own  faults,  by 
vociferously  claiming  their  share  in  the  great  capital  of  orig- 
inal sin. 

I  must  also,  therefore,  tell  you  here  what  properly  ought  to 
have  begun  the  next  following  section  of  our  subject — the 
point  usually  unnoticed  in  the  parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son. 

First,  have  you  observed  that  all  Christ's  main  teachings, 
by  direct  order,  by  earnest  parable,  and  by  His  own  per- 
manent emotion,  regard  the  use  and  misuse  of  money  f 
We  might  have  thought,  if  we  had  been  asked  what  a  divine 
teacher  was  most  likely  to  teach,  that  He  would  have  left  in- 
ferior persons  to  give  directions  about  money ;  and  Himself 
spoken  only  concerning  faith  and  love,  and  the  discipline  of 
the  passions,  and  the  guilt  of  the  crimes  of  soul  against  soul. 
But  not  so.  He  speaks  in  general  terms  of  these.  But  He 
does  not  speak  parables  about  them  for  all  men's  memory, 


232 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


nor  permit  Himself  fierce  indignation  against  them,  in  all 
men's  sight.  The  Pharisees  bring  Him  an  adulteress.  He 
writes  her  forgiveness  on  the  dust  of  which  he  had  formed 
her.  Another,  despised  of  all  for  known  sin,  He  recognized 
as  a  giver  of  unknown  love.  But  He  acknowledges  no  love 
in  buyers  and  sellers  in  His  house.  One  should  have  thought 
there  were  people  in  that  house  twenty  times  worse  than  they  ; 
— Caiaphas  and  his  like — false  priests,  false  prayer-makers, 
false  leaders  of  the  people — who  needed  putting  to  silence,  or 
to  flight,  with  darkest  wrath.  But  the  scourge  is  only  against 
the  traffickers  and  thieves.  The  two  most  intense  of  all  the 
parables  :  the  two  which  lead  the  rest  in  love  and  in  terror 
(this  of  the  Prodigal,  and  of  Dives)  relate,  both  of  them,  to 
management  of  riches.  The  practical  order  given  to  the  only 
seeker  of  advice,  of  whom  it  is  recorded  that  Christ  "  loved 
him,"  is  briefly  about  his  property.    "  Sell  that  thou  hast." 

And  the  arbitrament  of  the  day  of  Last  Judgment  is  made  to 
rest  wholly,  neither  on  belief  in  God,  nor  in  any  spiritual 
virtue  in  man,  nor  on  freedom  from  stress  of  stormy  crime, 
but  on  this  only,  "I  was  an  hungered  and  ye  gave  me  drink  ; 
naked,  and  ye  clothed  me  ;  sick,  and  ye  came  unto  me." 

Well,  then,  the  first  thing  I  want  you  to  notice  in  the  par- 
able of  the  Prodigal  Son  (and  the  last  thing  which  people 
usually  do  notice  in  it),  is — that  it  is  about  a  Prodigal !  He 
begins  by  asking  for  his  share  of  his  father's  goods ;  he  gets 
it,  carries  it  off,  and  wastes  it.  It  is  true  that  he  wastes  it  in 
riotous  living,  but  you  are  not  asked  to  notice  in  what  kind  of 
riot :  He  spends  it  with  harlots — but  it  is  not  the  harlotry 
which  his  elder  brother  accuses  him  of  mainly,  but  of  having 
devoured  his  father's  living.  Nay,  it  is  not  the  sensual  life 
which  he  accuses  himself  of — or  which  the  manner  of  his 
punishment  accuses  him  of.  But  the  wasteful  life.  It  is  not 
said  that  he  had  become  debauched  in  soul,  or  diseased  in 
body,  by  his  vice  ;  but  that  at  last  he  would  fain  have  filled 
his  belly  with  husks,  and  could  not.  It  is  not  said  that  he 
was  struck  with  remorse  for  the  consequences  of  his  evil  pas- 
sions, but  only  that  he  remembered  there  was  bread  enough 
and  to  spare,  even  for  the  servants,  at  home. 


HYSSOP. 


233 


Nov/,  my  friend,  do  not  think  I  want  to  extenuate  sins  of 
passion  (though,  in  very  truth,  the  sin  of  Magdalene  is  a  light 
one  compared  to  that  of  Judas)  ;  but  observe,  sins  of  passion, 
if  of  real  passion,  are  often  the  errors  and  back-falls  of  noble 
souls  ;  but  prodigality  is  mere  and  pure  selfishness,  and 
essentially  the  sin  of  an  ignoble  or  undeveloped  creature  ;  and 
I  would  rather,  ten  times  rather,  hear  of  a  youth  that  (certain 
degrees  of  temptation  and  conditions  of  resistance  being  un- 
derstood) he  had  fallen  into  any  sin  you  chose  to  name,  of  all 
the  mortal  ones,  than  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  running 
bills  which  he  could  not  pay. 

Farther,  though  I  hold  that  the  two  crowning  and  most  ac- 
cursed sins  of  the  society  of  this  present  day  are  the  careless- 
ness with  which  it  regards  the  betrayal  of  women,  and 
brutality  with  which  it  suffers  the  neglect  of  children,  both 
these  head  and  chief  crimes,  and  all  others,  are  rooted  first  in 
abuse  of  the  laws,  and  neglect  of  the  duties,  concerning 
wealth.  And  thus  the  love  of  money,  with  the  parallel  (and, 
observe,  mathematically  commensurate  looseness  in  management 
of  it),  the  "mal  tener,"  followed  necessarily  by  the  "  mal 
dare,"  is,  indeed,  the  root  of  all  evil. 

Then,  secondly,  I  want  you  to  note  that  when  the  prodigal 
comes  to  his  senses,  he  complains  of  nobody  but  himself,  and 
speaks  of  no  unworthiness  but  his  own.  He  says  nothing 
against  any  of  the  women  who  tempted  him — nothing  against 
the  citizen  who  left  him  to  feed  on  husks — nothing  of  the 
false  friends  of  whom  "  no  man  gave  unto  him" — above  all, 
nothing  of  the  "corruption  of  human  nature,"  or  the  corrup- 
tion of  things  in  general.  He  says  that  he  himself  is  unworthy, 
as  distinguished  from  honourable  persons,  and  that  he  himself 
has  sinned,  as  distinguished  from  righteous  persons.  And 
that  is  the  hard  lesson  to  learn,  and  the  beginning  of  faithful 
lessons.  All  right  and  fruitful  humility,  and  purging  of 
Heart,  and  seeing  of  God,  is  in  that.  It  is  easy  to  call  your- 
self the  chief  of  sinners,  expecting  every  sinner  round  you  to 
decline — or  return — the  compliment  ;  but  learn  to  measure 
the  real  degrees  of  your  own  relative  baseness,  and  to  he 
ashamed,  not  in  heaven's  sight,  but  in  man's  sight ;  and  re- 


234 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


demption  is  indeed  begun.  Observe  the  phrase,  I  have  sinned 
"against  heaven,'' against  the  great  law  of  that,  and  before 
thee,  visibly  degraded  before  my  human  sire  and  guide,  un- 
worthy any  more  of  being  esteemed  of  his  blood,  and  desirous 
only  of  taking  the  place  I  deserve  among  his  servants. 

Now,  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  I  shall  set  many  a  reader's 
teeth  on  edge  by  what  he  will  think  my  carnal  and  material 
rendering  of  this  " beautiful"  parable.  But  I  am  just  as 
ready  to  spiritualize  it  as  he  is,  provided  I  am  sure  first  that 
we  understand  it.  If  we  want  to  understand  the  parable  of 
the  sower,  we  must  first  think  of  it  as  of  literal  husbandry ; 
if  we  want  to  understand  the  parable  of  the  prodigal,  we  must 
first  understand  it  as  of  literal  prodigality.  And  the  story 
has  also  for  us  a  precious  lesson  in  this  literal  sense  of  it, 
namely  this,  which  I  have  been  urging  upon  you  throughout 
these  letters,  that  all  redemption  must  begin  in  subjection, 
and  in  the  recovery  of  the  sense  of  Fatherhood  and  authority, 
as  all  ruin  and  desolation  begin  in  the  loss  of  that  sense. 
The  lost  son  began  by  claiming  his  rights.  He  is  found 
when  he  resigns  them.  He  is  lost  by  flying  from  his  father, 
when  his  father's  authority  was  only  paternal.  He  is  found 
by  returning  to  his  father,  and  desiring  that  his  authority 
may  be  absolute,  as  over  a  hired  stranger. 

And  this  is  the  practical  lesson  I  want  to  leave  with  you, 
and  all  other  working  men. 

You  are  on  the  eve  of  a  great  political  crisis  ;  and  every 
rascal  with  a  tongue  in  his  head  will  try  to  make  his  own 
stock  out  of  you.  Now  this  is  the  test  you  must  try  them 
with.  Those  that  say  to  you,  "  Stand  up  for  your  rights — 
get  your  division  of  living — be  sure  that  you  are  as  well  off 
as  others,  and  have  what  they  have  ! — don't  let  any  man  dic- 
tate to  you — have  not  you  all  a  right  to  your  opinion  ? — are 
you  not  all  as  good  as  everybody  else  ? — let  us  have  no  gov- 
ernors, or  fathers — let  us  all  be  free  and  alike."  Those,  I  say, 
who  speak  thus  to  you,  take  Nelson's  rough  order  for — and 
hate  them  as  you  do  the  Devil,  for  they  are  his  ambassadors. 
But  those,  the  few,  who  have  the  courage  to  say  to  you,  "  My 
friends,  you  and  I,  and  all  of  us,  have  somehow  got  very 


HYSSOP. 


235 


wrong;  we've  been  hardly  treated,  certainly;  but  here  we 
are  in  a  piggery,  mainly  by  our  own  fault,  hungry  enough, 
and  for  ourselves,  anything  but  respectable  ;  we  must  get  out 
of  this  ;  there  are  certainly  laws  we  may  learn  to  live  by,  and 
there  are  wiser  people  than  we  in  the  world,  and  kindly  ones, 
if  we  can  find  our  way  to  them  ;  and  an  infinitely  wise  and 
kind  Father,  above  all  of  them  and  us,  if  we  can  but  find  our 
way  to  Him,  and  ask  Him  to  take  us  for  servants,  and  put  us 
to  any  work  He  will,  so  that  we  may  never  leave  Him  more." 
The  people  who  will  say  that  to  you,  and  (for  by  no  saying, 
but  by  their  fruits,  only,  you  shall  finally  know  them)  who  are 
themselves  orderly  and  kindly,  and  do  their  own  business 
well, — take  those  for  your  guides,  and  trust  them  ;  on  ice  and 
rock  alike,  tie  yourselves  well  together  with  them,  and  with 
much  scrutiny,  and  cautious  walking  (perhaps  nearly  as  much 
back  as  forward,  at  first),  you  will  verily  get  off  the  glacier, 
and  into  meadow  land,  in  God's  time. 

I  meant  to  have  written  much  to  you  respecting  the  mean- 
ing of  that  word  "  hired  servants,"  and  to  have  gone  on  to  the 
duties  of  soldiers,  for  you  know  "  Soldier  "  means  a  person 
who  is  paid  to  fight  with  regular  pay — literally  with  "  soldi " 
or  "sous" — the  "penny  a  day"  of  the  vineyard  labourers: 
but  I  can't  now  :  only  just  this  much,  that  our  whole  system 
of  work  must  be  based  on  the  nobleness  of  soldiership — so 
that  we  shall  all  be  soldiers  of  either  ploughshare  or  sword  ; 
and  literally,  all  our  actual  and  professed  soldiers,  whether 
professed  for  a  time  only,  or  for  life,  must  be  kept  to  hard 
work  of  hand,  when  not  in  actual  war  ;  their  honour  consist- 
ing in  being  set  to  services  of  more  pain  and  danger  than 
others  ;  to  lifeboat  service ;  to  redeeming  of  ground  from 
furious  rivers  or  sea — or  mountain  ruin  ;  to  subduing  wild 
and  unhealthy  land,  and  extending  the  confines  of  colonies  in 
the  front  of  miasm  and  famine,  and  savage  races. 

And  much  of  our  harder  home  work  must  be  done  in  a 
kind  of  soldiership,  by  bands  of  trained  workers  sent  from 
place  to  place  and  town  to  town  ;  doing  with  strong  and  sud- 
den hand  what  is  needed  for  help,  and  setting  all  things  in 
more  prosperous  courses  for  the  future. 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


Of  all  which  I  hope  to  speak  in  its  proper  place,  after  we 
know  what  offices  the  higher  arts  of  gentleness  have  among 
the  lower  ones  of  force,  and  how  their  prevalence  may  grad- 
ually change  spear  to  priming-hook,  over  the  face  of  all  the 
earth. 

And  now — but  one  word  more — either  for  you,  or  any  other 
readers  who  may  be  startled  at  what  I  have  been  saying  as  to 
the  peculiar  stress  ]aid  by  the  Founder  of  our  religion  on 
right  dealing  with  wealth.  Let  them  be  assured  that  it  is 
with  no  fortuitous  choice  among  the  attributes  or  powers  of 
evil,  that  "  Mammon  "is  assigned  for  the  direct  adversary  of 
the  Master  whom  they  are  bound  to  serve.  You  cannot,  by 
any  artifice  of  reconciliation,  be  God's  soldier,  and  his.  Nor 
while  the  desire  of  gain  is  within  your  heart,  can  any  true 
knowledge  of  the  Kingdom  of  God  come  there.  No  one  shall 
enter  its  stronghold,— no  one  receive  its  blessing,  except,  "  he 
that  hath  clean  hands  and  a  pure  heart ; "  clean  hands,  that 
have  done  no  cruel  deed  ; — pure  heart,  that  knows  no  base 
desire.  And,  therefore,  in  the  highest  spiritual  sense  that 
can  be  given  to  words,  be  assured,  not  respecting  the  literal 
temple  of  stone  and  gold,  but  of  the  living  temple  of  your 
body  and  soul,  that  no  redemption,  nor  teaching,  nor  hallow- 
ing, will  be  anywise  possible  for  it,  until  these  two  verses 
have  been,  for  it  also,  fulfilled  : — 

"  And  He  went  into  the  temple,  and  began  to  cast  out 
them  that  sold  therein,  and  them  that  bought.  And  He 
taught  daily  in  the  temple." 


APPENDICES. 


APPENDIX  E 

Page  19. — Expenditure  on  Science  and  Art 

The  following  is  the  passage  referred  to.  The  fact  it  relate* 
is  so  curious,  and  so  illustrative  of  our  national  interest  in 
science,  that  I  do  not  apologize  for  the  repetition  : — 

"  Two  years  ago  there  was  a  collection  of  the  fossils  of  So- 
lenhofen  to  be  sold  in  Bavaria  ;  the  best  in  existence,  contain- 
ing many  specimens  unique  for  perfectness,  and  one,  unique 
as  an  example  of  a  species  (a  whole  kingdom  of  unknown  liv- 
ing creatures  being  announced  by  that  fossil).  This  collection, 
of  which  the  mere  market  worth,  among  private  buyers, 
would  probably  have  been  some  thousand  or  twelve  hundred 
pounds,  was  offered  to  the  English  nation  for  seven  hundred  : 
but  we  would  not  give  seven  hundred,  and  the  whole  series 
would  have  been  in  the  Munich  museum  at  this  moment,  if 
Professor  Owen  1  had  not,  with  loss  of  his  own  time,  and 
patient  tormenting  of  the  British  public  in  the  person  of  its 
representatives,  got  leave  to  give  four  hundred  pounds  at 
once,  and  himself  become  answerable  for  the  other  three  ! — 
which  the  said  public  will  doubtless  pay  him  eventually,  but 
sulkily,  and  caring  nothing  about  the  matter  all  the  while  ; 
only  always  ready  to  cackle  if  any  credit  comes  of  it.  Con 
sider,  I  beg  of  you,  arithmetically,  what  this  fact  means. 
"Your  annual  expenditure  for  public  purposes  (a  third  of  it 

1  I  originally  stated  this  fact  without  Professor  Owen's  permission  ; 
which,  of  course,  he  could  not  with  propriety  have  granted  had  I  asked 
it  *,  but  I  considered  it  so  important  that  the  public  should  be  aware  of 
the  fact  that  I  did  what  seemed  to  me  right,  though  rude. 


238 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


for  military  apparatus)  is  at  least  fifty  millions.  Now  seven 
hundred  pounds  is  to  fifty  million  pounds  roughly,  as  seven 
pence  to  two  thousand  pounds.  Suppose  then,  a  gentleman 
of  unknown  income,  but  whose  wealth  was  to  be  conjectured 
from  the  fact  that  he  spent  two  thousand  a  year  on  his  park 
walls  and  footmen  only,  professes  himself  fond  of  science ; 
and  that  one  of  his  servants  comes  eagerly  to  tell  him  that  an 
unique  collection  of  fossils,  giving  clue  to  a  new  era  of  crea- 
tion, is  to  be  had  for  the  sum  of  sevenpence  sterling ;  and 
that  the  gentleman,  who  is  fond  of  science,  and  spends  two 
thousand  a  year  on  his  park,  answers  after  keeping  his  servant 
waiting  several  months,  £  Well !  I'll  give  you  fourpence  for 
them,  if  you  will  be  answerable  for  the  extra  threepence  your- 
self till  next  year  ! '  " 


APPENDIX  n. 

Page  25. — Legislation  of  Frederick  the  Great 

The  following  are  the  portions  of  Mr.  Dixon's  letters  re- 
ferred to  : — 

"  Well,  I  am  now  busy  with  Frederick  the  Great  ;  I  am  not 
now  astonished  that  Carlyle  calls  him  Great,  neither  that  this 
work  of  his  should  have  had  such  a  sad  effect  upon  him  in 
producing  it,  when  I  see  the  number  of  volumes  he  must  have 
had  to  wade  through  to  produce  such  a  clear  terse  set  of 
utterances ;  and  yet  I  do  not  feel  the  work  as  a  book  likely  to 
do  a  reader  of  it  the  good  that  some  of  his  other  books  will 
do.  It  is  truly  awful  to  read  these  battles  after  battles,  lies 
after  lies,  called  Diplomacy ;  it's  fearful  to  read  all  this,  and 
one  wonders  how  he  that  set  himself  to  this, — He,  of  all  men, 
— could  have  the  rare  patience  to  produce  such  a  laboured, 
heart-rending  piece  of  work.  Again,  when  one  reads  of  the 
stupidity,  the  shameful  waste  of  our  moneys  by  our  forefathers, 
to  see  that  our  National  Debt  (the  curse  to  our  labour  nows 
the  millstone  to  our  commerce,  to  our  fair  chance  of  competi- 
tion in  our  day)  thus  created,  and  for  what  ?  Even  Carlyle 
cannot  tell ;  then  how  are  we  to  tell  ?    Now,  who  will  deliver 


APPENDICES. 


239 


tis  ?  that  is  the  question  ;  who  will  help  us  in  those  days 
of  idle  or  no  work,  while  our  foreign  neighbours  have  plenty 
and  are  actually  selling  their  produce  to  our  men  of  capital 
cheaper  than  we  can  make  it !  House-rent  getting  dearer, 
taxes  getting  dearer,  rates,  clothing,  food,  &c.  Sad  times,  my 
master,  do  seem  to  have  fallen  upon  us.  And  the  cause  of 
nearly  all  this  lies  embedded  in  that  Frederick ;  and  yet,  so 
far  as  I  know  of  it,  no  critic  has  yet  given  an  exposition  of  such 
laying  there.  For  our  behoof,  is  there  no  one  that  will  take 
this,  that  there  lies  so  woven  in  with  much  other  stuff  so  sad 
to  read,  to  any  man  that  does  not  believe  man  was  made  to 
fight  alone,  to  be  a  butcher  of  his  fellow-man?  Who  will  do 
this  work,  or  piece  of  work,  so  that  all  who  care  to  know  how 
it  is  that  our  debt  grew  so  large,  and  a  great  deal  more  that 
we  ought  to  know  ? — that  clearly  is  one  great  reason  why  the 
book  was  written  and  was  printed.  Well,  I  hope  some  day 
all  this  will  be  clear  to  our  people,  and  some  man  or  men  will 
arise  and  sweep  us  clear  of  these  hindrances,  these  sad  draw- 
backs to  the  vitality  of  our  work  in  this  world." 

"57,  Nile  Street,  Sunderland,  Feb.  7,  1867. 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  beg  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  two  letters 
as  additions  to  your  books,  which  I  have  read  with  deep  inter- 
est, and  shall  take  care  of  them,  and  read  them  over  again,  so 
that  I  may  thoroughly  comprehend  them,  and  be  able  to  think 
of  them  for  future  use.  I  myself  am  not  fully  satisfied  with 
our  co-operation,  and  never  have  been  ;  it  is  too  much  tinged 
with  the  very  elements  that  they  complain  of  in  our  present 
systems  of  trade — selfishness.  I  have  for  years  been  trying 
to  direct  the  attention  of  the  editor  of  the  Co-operator  to  such 
evils  that  I  see  in  it.  Now,  further,  I  may  state  that  I  find 
you  and  Carlyle  seem  to  agree  quite  on  the  idea  of  the  Master- 
hood  qualification.  There,  again,  I  find  you  both  feel  and 
write  as  all  working  men  consider  just.  I  can  assure  you 
there  is  not  an  honest,  noble,  working  man  that  would  not  by 
far  serve  under  such  master-hood,  than  be  the  employe  or 
workman  of  a  co-operative  store.  Working  men  do  not  as  a 
rule  make  good  masters ;  neither  do  they  treat  each  other 


240 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


with  that  courtesy  as  a  noble  master  treats  his  working  man. 
George  Fox  shadows  forth  some  such  treatment  that  Friends 
ought  to  make  law  and  guidance  for  their  working  men  and 
slaves,  such  as  you  speak  of  in  your  letters.  I  will  look  the 
passage  up,  as  it  is  quite  to  the  point,  so  far  as  I  now  remem- 
ber it.  In  Vol.  VI.  of  Frederick  the  Great,  I  find  a  great  deal 
there  that  I  feel  quite  certain,  if  our  Queen  or  Government 
could  make  law,  thousands  of  English  working  men  would 
hail  it  with  such  a  shout  of  joy  and  gladness  as  would  aston- 
ish the  Continental  world.  These  changes  suggested  by  Car- 
lyle,  and  placed  before  the  thinkers  of  England,  are  the 
noblest,  the  truest  utterances  on  real  kinghood,  that  I  have 
ever  read ;  the  more  I  think  over  them,  the  more  I  feel  the 
truth,  the  justness,  and  also  the  fitness  of  them,  to  our  nation's 
present  dire  necessities ;  yet  this  is  the  man,  and  these  are 
the  thoughts  of  his,  that  our  critics  seem  never  to  see,  or  if 
seen,  don't  think  worth  printing  or  in  any  way  wisely  direct- 
ing the  attention  of  the  public  thereto,  alas  !  All  this  and 
much  more  fills  me  with  such  sadness  that  I  am  driven  almost 
to  despair.  I  see  from  the  newspapers,  Yorkshire,  Lancashire, 
and  other  places  are  sternly  endeavouring  to  carry  out  the 
short-time  movement  until  such  times  as  trade  revives,  and  I 
find  the  masters  and  men  seem  to  adopt  it  with  a  good  grace 
and  friendly  spirit.  I  also  beg  to  inform  you  I  see  a  Mr. 
Morley,  a  large  manufacturer  at  Nottingham,  has  been  giving 
pensions  to  all  his  old  workmen.  I  hope  such  a  noble  exam- 
■ple  will  be  followed  by  other  wealthy  masters.  It  would  do 
more  to  make  a  master  loved,  honoured,  and  cared  for,  than 
thousands  of  pounds  expended  in  other  ways.  The  Govern- 
ment Savings  Bank  is  one  of  the  wisest  acts  of  late  years  done 
by  our  Government.  I,  myself,  often  wish  the  Government 
held  all  our  banks  instead  of  private  men  ;  that  would  put  an 
end  to  false  speculations,  such  as  we  too  often  in  the  provinces 
suffer  so  severely  by,  so  I  hail  with  pleasure  and  delight  the 
shadowing  forth  by  you  of  these  noble  plans  for  the  future  :  1 
feel  glad  and  uplifted  to  think  of  the  good  that  such  teaching 
will  do  for  us  all.  Yours  truly, 

"  Thomas  Dixon/' 


APPENDICES. 


241 


"57,  Nile  Street,  Sunderland,  Feb.  24,  1867. 
"Dear  Sir, — I  now  give  you  the  references  to  Frederick  the 
Great,  Vol.  VI.  :  Land  Question,  365  page,  where  he  increases 
the  number  of  small  farmers  to  4,000  (202,  204).  English  sol- 
diers and  T.  C.'s  remarks  on  our  system  of  purchase,  &c. 
His  law  (620,  623,  624),  State  of  Poland  and  how  he  repaired 
it  (487,  488,  489,  490).  I  especially  value  the  way  he  intro- 
duced all  kinds  of  industries  therein,  and  so  soon  changed 
the  chaos  into  order.  Again,  the  schoolmasters  also  are  given 
(not  yet  in  England,  says  T.  C).  Again,  the  use  he  made  of 
15,000/.  surplus  in  Brandenburg  ;  how  it  was  applied  to  better 
his  staff  of  masters.  To  me,  the  Vol.  VI.  is  one  of  the  wisest 
pieces  of  modern  thought  in  our  language.  I  only  wish  I  had 
either  your  power,  C.  Kingsley,  Maurice,  or  some  such  able 
pen-generalship,  to  illustrate  and  show  forth  all  the  wise 
teaching  on  law,  government,  and  social  life  I  see  in  it,  and 
shining  like  a  star  through  all  its  pages.  I  feel  also  the  truth 
of  all  you  have  written,  and  will  do  all  I  can  to  make  such  men 
or  women  that  care  for  such  thoughts,  see  it,  or  read  it.  I  am 
copying  the  letters  as  fast  and  as  well  as  I  can,  and  will  use 
my  utmost  endeavour  to  have  them  done  that  justice  to  they 
merit.  Yours  truly, 

"Thomas  Dixon. " 


APPENDIX  III. 

Page  27.- — Effect  of  Modern  Entertainments  on  the  Mind  of 

Youth. 

The  letter  of  the  Times  correspondent  referred  to  contained 
an  account  of  one  of  the  most  singular  cases  of  depravity  ever 
brought  before  a  criminal  court ;  but  it  is  unnecessary  to 
bring  any  of  its  details  under  the  reader's  attention,  for 
nearly  every  other  number  of  our  journals  has  of  late  con- 
tained some  instances  of  atrocities  before  unthought  of,  and, 
it  might  have  seemed,  impossible  to  humanity.  The  connec- 
tion of  these  with  the  modern  love  of  excitement  in  the  sensa- 
tion novel  and  drama  may  not  be  generally  understood,  but  it 
is  direct  and  constant ;  all  furious  pursuit  of  pleasure  ending 


242  TIME  AND  TIDE. 

in  actual  desire  of  horror  and  delight  in  death.  I  entered  into 
some  fuller  particulars  on  this  subject  in  a  lecture  given  in  the 
spring  at  the  Eoyal  Institution,  which  will  be  shortly  pub- 
lished in  a  form  accessible  to  the  readers  of  these  Letters,  and 
I  therefore  give  no  extracts  from  it. 


APPENDIX  IV. 

Page  47. — Drunkenness  as  the  Cause  of  Crime. 

The  following  portions  of  Mr.  Dixon's  letter  referred  to, 
will  be  found  interesting  : — 

"  Deak  Sir, — Your  last  letters  I  think  will  arouse  the  at- 
tention of  thinkers  more  than  any  of  the  series,  it  being  on 
topics  they  in  general  feel  more  interested  in  than  the  others, 
especially  as  in  these  you  do  not  assail  their  pockets  so  much 
as  in  the  former  ones.  Since  you  seem  interested  with  the 
notes  or  rough  sketches  on  gin,  G  *  *  *  of  Dublin  was  the 
man  I  alluded  to  as  making  his  money  by  drink,  and  then 
giving  the  results  of  such  traffic  to  repair  the  Cathedral  of 
Dublin.  It  was  thousands  of  pounds.  I  call  such  charity 
robbing  Peter  to  pay  Paul !  Immense  fortunes  are  made  in 
the  Liquor  Traffic,  and  I  will  tell  you  why  ;  it  is  all  paid  for  in 
cash,  at  least  such  as  the  poor  people  buy  ;  they  get  credit 
for  clothes,  butcher's  meat,  groceries,  &c,  while  they  give  the 
gin-palace  keeper  cash  ;  they  never  begrudge  the  price  of  a 
glass  of  gin  or  beer,  they  never  haggle  over  its  price,  never 
once  think  of  doing  that ;  but  in  the  purchase  of  almost  every 
other  article  they  haggle  and  begrudge  its  price.  To  give  you 
an  idea  of  its  profits — there  are  houses  here  whose  average 
weekly  takings  in  cash  at  their  bars,  is  50/.,  60/.,  70/.,  80/.,  90/., 
to  150/.,  per  week  !  Nearly  all  the  men  of  intelligence  in  it, 
say  it  is  the  curse  of  the  working  classes.  Men  whose  earnings 
are,  say  20s.  to  30s.  per  week,  spend  on  the  average  3s.  to  6s. 
per  week  (some  even  10s.).  It's  my  mode  of  living  to  supply 
these  houses  with  corks,  that  makes  me  see  so  much  of  the 
drunkenness  ;  and  that  is  the  cause  why  I  never  really  cared 
for  my  trade,  seeing  the  misery  that  was  entailed  on  my  fellow 


APPENDICES. 


243 


men  and  women  by  the  use  of  this  stuff.  Again,  a  house  with 
a  license  to  sell  spirit,  wine,  and  ale,  to  be  consumed  on  the 
premises,  is  worth  two  to  three  times  more  money  than  any 
other  class  of  property.  One  house  here  worth  nominally  140/. 
sold  the  other  day  for  520/.  ;  another  one  worth  200/.  sold 
for  800Z.  I  know  premises  with  a  license  that  were  sold  for 
1,300/.,  and  then  sold  again  two  years  after  for  1,800/.  ;  an- 
other place  was  rented  for  50/.  now  rents  at  100/. — this  last  is  a 
house  used  by  working  men  and  labourers  chiefly  !  No,  I 
honour  men  like  Sir  W.  Trevelyn,  that  are  teetotallers,  or  total 
abstainers,  as  an  example  to  poor  men,  and  to  prevent  his 
work  people  being  tempted,  will  not  allow  any  public-house 
on  his  estate.  If  our  land  had  a  few  such  men  it  would  help 
the  cause.  We  possess  one  such  a  man  here,  a  banker.  I  feel 
sorry  to  say  the  progress  of  temperance  is  not  so  great  as  I 
would  like  to  see  it.  The  only  religious  body  that  approaches 
to  your  ideas  of  political  economy  is  Quakerism  as  taught 
by  George  Fox.  Caiiyle  seems  deeply  tinged  with  their 
teachings.  Silence  to  them  is  as  valuable  as  to  him.  Again, 
why  should  people  howl  and  shriek  over  the  law  that  the  Alli- 
ance is  now  trying  to  carry  out  in  our  land,  called  the  Permis- 
sive Bill  ?  If  we  had  just  laws  we  then  would  not  be  so  mis- 
erable or  so  much  annoyed  now  and  then  with  cries  of  Keform 
and  cries  of  Distress.  I  send  you  two  pamphlets  ; — one  gives 
the  workingman's  reasons  why  he  don't  go  to  church  ;  in  it 
you  will  see  a  few  opinions  expressed  very  much  akin  to  those 
you  have  written  to  me.  The  other  gives  an  account  how  it  is 
the  poor  Indians  have  died  of  Famine,  simply  because  they 
have  destroyed  the  very  system  of  Political  Eeconomy,  or  one 
having  some  approach  to  it,  that  you  are  now  endeavouring 
to  direct  the  attention  of  thinkers  to  in  our  country.  The 
Sesame  and  Lilies  I  have  read  as  you  requested.  I  feel  now 
fully  the  aim  and  object  you  have  in  view  in  the  Letters,  but 
I  cannot  help  directing  your  attention  to  that  portion  where 
you  mention  or  rather  exclaim  against  the  Florentines  pulling 
down  their  Ancient  Walls  to  build  a  Boulevard.  That  passage 
is  one  that  would  gladden  the  hearts  of  all  true  Italians,  espe- 
cially men  that  love  Italy  and  Dante  ! 


244 


TIME  AND  TIDE, 


APPENDIX  V. 

Page  48. — Abuse  of  Food. 

Paragraphs  cut  from  Manchester  Examiner  of  March  16, 
1867  :— 

"  A  Parisian  Character.— A  celebrated  character  has  disap- 
peared from  the  Palais  Royal.  Rene  Lartique  was  a  Swiss, 
and  a  man  of  about  sixty.  He  actually  spent  the  last  fifteen 
years  in  the  Palais  Royal — that  is  to  say,  he  spent  the  third  of 
his  life  at  dinner.  Every  morning  at  ten  o'clock  he  was  to  be 
seen  going  into  a  restaurant  (usually  Tissat's),  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments was  installed  in  a  corner,  which  he  only  quitted  about 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  after  having  drunk  at  least  six  or 
seven  bottles  of  different  kinds  of  wine.  He  then  walked  up 
and  down  the  garden  till  the  clock  struck  five,  when  he  made 
his  appearance  again  at  the  same  restaurant,  and  always  at 
the  same  place.  His  second  meal,  at  which  he  drank  quite 
as  much  as  at  the  first,  invariably  lasted  till  half -past  nine. 
Therefore,  he  devoted  nine  hours  a  day  to  eating  and  drink- 
ing. His  dress  was  most  wretched — his  shoes  broken,  his 
trousers  torn,  his  paletot  without  any  lining,  and  patched,  his 
waistcoat  without  buttons,  his  hat  a  rusty  red  from  old  age,  and 
the  whole  surmounted  by  a  dirty  white  beard.  One  day  he  went 
up  to  the  comptoir,  and  asked  the  presiding  divinity  there  to 
allow  him  to  run  in  debt  for  one  day's  dinner.  He  perceived 
some  hesitation  in  complying  with  the  request,  and  immedi- 
ately called  one  of  the  waiters,  and  desired  him  to  follow  him. 
He  went  into  the  office,  unbuttoned  a  certain  indispensable 
garment,  and,  taking  off  a  broad  leather  belt,  somewhat  star- 
tled the  waiter  by  displaying  two  hundred  gold  pieces,  each 
worth  one  hundred  francs.  Taking  up  one  of  them,  he  tossed 
it  to  the  waiter,  and  desired  him  to  pay  whatever  he  owed. 
He  never  again  appeared  at  that  restaurant,  and  died  a  few 
days  ago  of  indigestion." 


APPENDICES, 


245 


"  Revenge  in  a  Ball-Room. — A  distressing  event  lately  took 
place  at  Castellaz,  a  little  commune  of  the  Alpes-Maritimes, 
near  Mentone.  All  the  young  people  of  the  place  being  as- 
sembled in  a  dancing-room,  one  of  the  young  men  was  seen  to 
fall  suddenly  to  the  ground,  whilst  a  young  woman,  his  part- 
ner, brandished  a  poniard,  and  was  preparing  to  inflict  a  second 
blow  on  him,  having  already  desperately  wounded  him  in  the 
stomach.    The  author  of  the  crime  was  at  once  arrested.  She 

declared  her  name  to  be  Maria  P  ,  twenty-one  years  of 

age,  and  added  that  she  had  acted  from  a  motive  of  revenge, 
the  young  man  having  led  her  astray  formerly  with  a  promise 
of  marriage,  which  he  had  never  fulfilled.  In  the  morning  of 
that  day  she  had  summoned  him  to  keep  his  word,  and,  upon 
his  refusal,  had  determined  on  making  the  dancing-room  the 
scene  of  her  revenge.  She  was  at  first  locked  up  in  the 
prison  of  Mentone,  and  afterwards  sent  on  to  Nice.  The 
young  man  continues  in  an  alarming  state.5' 


APPENDIX  VI. 

Page  51. — Law  of  Property. 

The  following  is  the  paragraph  referred  to  : — 
"  The  first  necessity  of  all  economical  government  is  to  se- 
cure the  unquestioned  and  unquestionable  working  of  the 
great  law  of  property — that  a  man  who  works  for  a  thing  shall 
be  allowed  to  get  it,  keep  it,  and  consume  it,  in  peace  ;  and 
that  he  who  does  not  eat  his  cake  to-day,  shall  be  seen,  with- 
out grudging,  to  have  his  cake  to-morrow.  This,  I  say,  is  the 
first  point  to  be  secured  by  social  law  ;  without  this,  no  polit- 
ical advance,  nay,  no  political  existence,  is  in  any  sort  possible. 
Whatever  evil,  luxury,  iniquity,  may  seem  to  result  from  it,  this 
is  nevertheless  the  first  of  all  equities  :  and  to  the  enforcement 
of  this,  by  law  and  by  police-truncheon,  the  nation  must  always 
primarily  set  its  mind — that  the  cupboard-door  may  have  a 
firm  lock  to  it,  and  no  man's  dinner  be  carried  off  by  the 
mob,  on  its  way  home  from  the  baker's." 


246 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


APPENDIX  VH. 

Page  54. — Ambition  of  Bishops. 

M  Nearly  all  the  evils  in  the  Church  have  arisen  from  bish- 
ops desiring  power  more  than  light.  They  want  authority, 
not  outlook.  Whereas  their  real  office  is  not  to  rule,  though 
it  may  be  vigorously  to  exhort  and  rebuke  ;  it  is  the  king's 
office  to  rule  ;  the  bishop's  office  is  to  oversee  the  flock,  to 
number  it,  sheep  by  sheep,  to  be  ready  always  to  give  full  ac- 
count of  it.  Now  it  is  clear  he  cannot  give  account  of  the 
souls,  if  he  has  not  so  much  as  numbered  the  bodies,  of  his 
flock.  The  first  thing,  therefore,  that  a  bishop  has  to  do  is  at 
least  to  put  himself  in  a  position  in  which,  at  any  moment,  he 
can  obtain  the  history,  from  childhood,  of  every  living  soul  in 
his  diocese,  and  of  its  present  state.  Down  in  that  back 
street,  Bill  and  Nancy  knocking  each  other's  teeth  out ! — Does 
the  bishop  know  all  about  it  ?  Has  he  had  his  eye  upon 
them?  Can  he  circumstantially  explain  to  us  how  Bill  got 
into  the  habit  of  beating  Nancy  about  the  head  ?  If  he  can- 
not, he  is  no  bishop,  though  he  had  a  mitre  as  high  as  Salis- 
bury steeple  ;  he  is  no  bishop — he  has  sought  to  be  at  the 
helm  instead  of  the  mast-head  ;  he  has  no  sight  of  things. 
cNay,'  you  say,  'it  is  not  his  duty  to  look  after  Bill  in  the 
"back  street."'  What !  the  fat  sheep  that  have  full  fleeces — ■ 
you  think  it  is  only  those  he  should  look  after,  while  (go  back 
to  your  Milton)  '  the  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed,' 
besides  what  the  grim  wolf,  6  with  privy  paw  '  (bishops  know- 
ing nothing  about  it)  '  daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing 
said  ?  '  '  But  that's  not  our  idea  of  a  bishop.'  Perhaps  not ; 
but  it  was  St.  Paul's,  and  it  was  Milton's.  They  may  be  right, 
or  we  may  be  ;  but  we  must  not  think  we  are  reading  either 
one  or  the  other  by  putting  our  meaning  into  their  words.*—* 
Sesame  and  Lilies,  p.  43. 


APPENDICES. 


247 


APPENDIX  VIIL 

Page  57. — Regulations  of  Trade. 

I  print  portions  of  two  letters  of  Mr.  Dixon's  in  this  place ; 
one  referring  to  our  former  discussion  respecting  the  sale  of 
votes. 

"  57,  Nile  Street,  Sunderland,  March  21,  1867. 

"  I  only  wish  I  could  write  in  some  tolerable  good  style,  so 
that  I  could  idealize,  or  rather  realize  to  folks,  the  life,  and 
love,  and  marriage  of  a  working  man  and  his  wife.  It  is  yi 
my  opinion  a  working  man  that  really  does  know  what  a  true 
wife  is,  for  his  every  want,  his  every  comfort  in  life  depends 
on  her  ;  and  his  children's  home,  their  daily  lives  and  future 
lives,  are  shaped  by  her.  Napoleon  wisely  said,  •  France  needs 
good  mothers  more  than  brave  men.  Good  mothers  are  the 
makers  or  shapers  of  good  and  brave  men.'  I  cannot  say  that 
these  are  the  words,  but  it  is  the  import  of  his  speech  on  the 
topic.  We  have  a  saying  amongst  us  :  *  The  man  may  spend 
and  money  lend,  if  his  wife  be  ought,' — L  <?.,  good  wife  ; — 'but 
he  may  work  and  try  to  save,  but  will  have  nought,  if  his  wife 
be  nought/ — L  e.,  bad  or  thriftless  wife. 

"Now,  since  you  are  intending  to  treat  of  the  working 
man's  parliament  and  its  duties,  I  will  just  throw  out  a  few 
suggestions  of  what  I  consider  should  be  the  questions  or 
measures  that  demand  an  early  inquiry  into  and  debate  on. 
That  guilds  be  established  in  every  town,  where  masters  and 
men  may  meet,  so  as  to  avoid  the  temptations  of  the  public- 
house  and  drink.  And  then,  let  it  be  made  law  that  every 
lad  should  serve  an  apprenticeship  of  not  less  than  seven  years 
to  a  trade  or  art,  before  he  is  allowed  to  be  a  member  of  such 
guild  ;  also,  that  all  wages  be  based  on  a  rate  of  so  much  per 
hour,  and  not  day,  as  at  present ;  and  let  every  man  prove  his 
workmanship  before  such  a  guild  ;  and  then  allow  to  him 
such  payment  per  hour  as  his  craft  merits.  Let  there  be 
three  grades,  and  then  let  there  be  trials  of  skill  in  workman- 


248 


TIME  AND  TIDE. 


ship  every  year  ;  and  then,  if  the  workman  of  the  third  grade 
prove  that  he  has  made  progress  in  his  craft,  reward  him  ac- 
cordingly. Then,  before  a  lad  is  put  to  any  trade,  why  not 
see  what  he  is  naturally  fitted  for  ?  Combe's  book,  entitled 
The  Constitution  of  Man ,  throws  a  good  deal  of  truth  on  to 
these  matters.  Now,  here  are  two  branches  of  the  science 
of  life  that,  so  far,  have  never  once  been  given  trial  of  in  this 
way.  We  certainly  use  them  after  a  crime  has  been  com- 
mitted, but  not  till  then. 

"  Next  to  that,  cash  payment  for  all  and  everything  needed 
in  life.  Credit  is  a  curse  to  him  that  gives  it,  and  he  that  takes 
it.  He  that  lives  by  credit  lives  in  general  carelessly.  If 
there  was  no  credit,  people  then  would  have  to  live  on  what 
they  earned  !  Then,  after  that,  the  Statute  of  Limitations  of 
Fortune  you  propose.  By  the  hour  system,  not  a  single  man 
need  be  idle  ;  it  would  give  employment  to  all,  and  even  two 
hours  per  day  would  realize  more  to  a  man  than  breaking 
stones.  Thus  you  would  make  every  one  self-dependent — also 
no  fear  of  being  out  of  work  altogether.  Then  let  there  be  a 
Government  fund  for  all  the  savings  of  the  working  man.  I 
am  afraid  you  wrill  think  this  a  wild,  discursive  sort  of  a  letter. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  Thomas  Dixon." 

"I  have  read  your  references  to  the  Times  on  'Bribery.' 
Well,  that  has  long  been  my  own  opinion  ;  they  simply  have 
a  vote  to  sell,  and  sell  it  the  same  way  as  they  sell  potatoes,  or 
a  coat,  or  any  other  saleable  article.  Voters  generally  say, 
'  What  does  this  gentleman  want  in  Parliament  ?  Why,  to 
help  himself  and  his  family  or  friends  ;  he  does  not  spend  all 
the  money  he  spends  over  his  election  for  pure  good  of  his 
country  !  No  :  it's  to  benefit  his  pocket,  to  be  sure.'  '  Why 
should  I  not  make  a  penny  with  my  vote,  as  wTell  as  he  does 
with  his  in  Parliament  ? '  I  think  that  if  the  system  of  can- 
vassing or  election  agents  were  done  away  with,  and  all  per- 
sonal canvassing  for  votes  entirely  abolished,  it  would  help  to 
put  down  bribery.  Let  each  gentleman  send  to  the  electors 
his  political  opinions  in  a  circular,  and  then  let  papers  be 


APPENDICES. 


249 


sent,  or  cards,  to  each  elector,  and  then  let  them  go  and  re- 
cord their  votes  in  the  same  way  they  do  for  a  councillor  in 
the  Corporation.  It  would  save  a  great  deal  of  expense,  and 
prevent  those  scenes  of  drunkenness  so  common  in  our  towns 
during  elections.  Bewick's  opinions  of  these  matters  are  quite 
to  the  purpose,  I  think  (see  page  201  of  Memoir).  Again,  re- 
specting the  Paris  matter  referred  to  in  your  last  letter,  I  have 
read  it.  Does  it  not  manifest  plainly  enough  that  Europeans 
are  also  in  a  measure  possessed  with  that  same  demoniacal 
spirit  like  the  Japanese  ?  " 


APPENDIX  IX. 

Page  90. —  Greatness  Goal-begotten. 

"  Here  is  a  bit  of  paper  in  my  hand,1  a  good  one  too,  and 
an  honest  one  ;  quite  representative  of  the  best  common  pub- 
lic thought  of  England  at  this  moment ;  and  it  is  holding 
forth  in  one  of  its  leaders  upon  our  'social  welfare/ — :upon 
our  e  vivid  life/ — upon  the  '  political  supremacy  of  Great  Brit- 
ain.' And  what  do  you  think  all  these  are  owing  to  ?  To 
what  our  English  sires  have  done  for  us,  and  taught  us,  age 
after  age  ?  No  :  not  to  that.  To  our  honesty  of  heart,  or 
coolness  of  head,  or  steadiness  of  will  ?  No  :  not  to  these. 
To  our  thinkers,  or  our  statesmen,  or  our  poets,  or  our  cap- 
tains, or  our  martyrs,  or  the  patient  labour  of  our  poor  ?  No  : 
not  to  these  ;  or  at  least  not  to  these  in  any  chief  measure. 

1  A  saying  of  Baron  Liebig's,  quoted  at  the  head  of  a  leader  on  the 
same  subject  in  the  Daily  Telegraph  of  January  11,  1866,  summarily  di- 
gests and  presents  the  maximum  folly  of  modern  thought  in  this  respect. 
"Civilization,"  says  the  Baron,  "  is  the  economy  of  power,  and  Eng- 
lish power  is  coal."  Not  altogether  so,  my  chemical  friend.  Civiliza- 
tion is  the  making  of  civil  persons,  which  is  a  kind  of  distillation  of 
which  alembics  are  incapable,  and  does  not  at  all  imply  the  turning  of 
a  small  company  of  gentlemen  into  a  large  company  of  ironmongers. 
And  English  power  (what  little  of  it  may  be  left)  is  by  no  means  coal, 
but  indeed,  of  that  which,  *f  when  the  whole  world  turns  to  coal,  then 
chiefly  lives." 


250 


TTME  AND  TIDE. 


Nay,  says  the  journal,  '  more  than  any  agency,  it  is  the  cheap- 
ness and  abundance  of  our  coal  which  have  made  us  what  we 
are.'  If  it  be  so,  then  '  ashes  to  ashes  '  be  our  epitaph  !  and 
the  sooner  the  better.  I  tell  you,  gentlemen  of  England,  if 
ever  you  would  have  your  country  breathe  the  pure  breath  of 
heaven  again,  and  receive  again  a  soul  into  her  body,  instead 
of  rotting  into  a  carcase,  blown  up  in  the  belly  with  carbonic 
acid  (and  great  that  way),  you  must  think,  and  feel,  for  your 
England,  as  well  as  fight  for  her  :  you  must  teach  her  that  all 
the  true  greatness  she  ever  had,  or  ever  can  have,  she  won 
while  her  fields  were  green  and  her  faces  ruddy  ; — that  great- 
ness is  still  possible  for  Englishmen,  even  though  the  ground 
be  not  hollow  under  their  feet,  nor  the  sky  black  over  their 
heads.'—  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  p.  88. 


APPENDIX  X. 

The  following  letter  did  not  form  part  of  the  series  written 
to  Mr.  Dixon  ;  but  is  perhaps  worth  reprinting.  I  have  not 
the  date  of  the  number  of  the  Gazette  in  which  it  appeared, 
but  it  was  during  the  tailors'  strike  in  London. 

"  To  the  Editor  of  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette: 

«  SIR> — In  your  yesterday's  article  on  strikes  you  have  very 
neatly  and  tersely  expressed  the  primal  fallacy  of  modern  po- 
litical economy — to  wit,  that '  the  value  of  any  piece  of  labour 
cannot  be  defined  • — and  that  6  all  that  can  be  ascertained  is 
simply  whether  any  man  can  be  got  to  do  it  for  a  certain  sum.' 
Now,  sir,  the  '  value '  of  any  piece  of  labour,  that  is  to  say,  the 
quantity  of  food  and  air  which  will  enable  a  man  to  per- 
form it  without  losing  actually  any  of  his  flesh  or  his  nervous 
energy,  is  as  absolutely  fixed  a  quantity  as  the  weight  of  powder 
necessary  to  carry  a  given  ball  a  given  distance.  And  within 
limits  varying  by  exceedingly  minor  and  unimportant  circum- 
stances, it  is  an  ascertainable  quantity.  I  told  the  public  this 
five  years  ago — and  under  pardon  of  your  politico-economical 
contributors — it  is  not  a  '  sentimental/  but  a  chemical,  fact. 


APPENDICES. 


251 


"Let  any  half-dozen  of  recognized  London  physicians  state 
in  precise  terms  the  quantity  and  kind  of  food,  and  space  of 
lodging,  they  consider  approximately  necessary  for  the  healthy 
life  of  a  labourer  in  any  given  manufacture,  and  the  number 
of  hours  he  may,  without  shortening  his  life,  work  at  such 
business  daily  if  so  sustained. 

"  And  let  all  masters  be  bound  to  give  their  men  a  choice 
between  an  order  for  that  quantity  of  food  and  lodging,  or 
such  wages  as  the  market  may  offer  for  that  number  of  hours5 
work. 

"  Proper  laws  for  the  maintenance  of  families  would  require 
further  concession — but,  in  the  outset,  let  but  this  law  of 
wrages  be  established,  and  if  then  we  have  any  more  strikes 
you  may  denounce  them  without  one  word  of  remonstrance 
either  from  sense  or  sensibility. 

"I  am,  Sir, 

"Your  faithful  servant, 

"  John  Ruskin," 


V 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND 

LECTURES  GIVEN  IN  OXFORD 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


LECTURE  I 

Realistic  Schools  of  Painting. 

d.  g.  rossetti  and  w.  holman  hunt. 

I  am  well  assured  that  this  audience  is  too  kind,  and  too 
sympathetic,  to  wish  me  to  enlarge  on  the  mingled  feelings 
of  fear  and  thankfulness,  with  which  I  find  myself  once  again 
permitted  to  enter  on  the  duties  in  which  I  am  conscious  that 
before  I  fell  short  in  too  many  ways  ;  and  in  which  I  only 
have  ventured  to  ask,  and  to  accept,  your  farther  trust,  in  the 
hope  of  being  able  to  bring  to  some  of  their  intended  con- 
clusions, things  not  in  the  nature  of  them,  it  seems  to  me, 
beyond  what  yet  remains  of  an  old  man's  energy  ;  but,  be- 
fore, too  eagerly  begun,  and  too  irregularly  followed.  And 
indeed  I  am  partly  under  the  impression,  both  in  gratitude 
and  regret,  that  Professor  Richmond's  resignation,  however 
justly  motived  by  his  wish  to  pursue  with  uninterrupted 
thought  the  career  open  to  him  in  his  profession,  had  partly 
also  for  its  reason  the  courtesy  of  concession  to  his  father's 
old  friend  ;  and  his  own  feeling  that  while  yet  I  was  able  to 
be  of  service  in  advancing  the  branches  of  elementary 
art  with  which  I  was  specially  acquainted,  it  was  best  that  I 
should  make  the  attempt  on  lines  already  opened,  and  with 
the  aid  of  old  friends.  I  am  now  alike  comforted  in  having 
left  you,  and  encouraged  in  return  ;  for  on  all  grounds  it  was 
most  desirable  that  to  the  imperfect,  and  yet  in  many  points 
new  and  untried  code  of  practice  which  I  had  instituted,  the 
foundations  of  higher  study  should  have  been  added  by  Mr. 


256 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


Richmond,  in  connection  with  the  methods  of  art-education 
recognized  in  the  Academies  of  Europe.  And  although  I  have 
not  yet  been  able  to  consult  with  him  on  the  subject,  I  trust 
that  no  interruption  of  the  courses  of  figure  study,  thus 
established,  may  be  involved  in  the  completion,  for  what  it  is 
worth,  of  the  s}^stem  of  subordinate  exercises  in  natural 
history  and  landscape,  indicated  in  the  schools  to  which  at 
present,  for  convenience'  sake,  my  name  is  attached  ;  but 
which,  if  they  indeed  deserve  encouragement,  will,  I  hope, 
receive  it  ultimately,  as  presenting  to  the  beginner  the  first 
aspects  of  art,  in  the  widest,  because  the  humblest,  relation 
to  those  of  divinely  organized  and  animated  Nature. 

The  immediate  task  I  propose  to  myself  is  to  make  service- 
able, by  all  the  illustration  I  can  give  them,  the  now  un- 
equalled collection  possessed  by  the  Oxford  schools  of  Turner 
drawings  and  sketches,  completed  as  it  has  been  by  the  kind- 
ness of  the  Trustees  of  the  National  Gallery  at  the  intercession 
of  Prince  Leopold  ;  and  furnishing  the  means  of  progress  in 
the  study  of  landscape  such  as  the  great  painter  himself  only 
conceived  the  scope  of  toward  the  closing  period  of  his  life. 
At  the  opening  of  next  term,  I  hope,  with  Mr.  Macdonald's 
assistance,  to  have  drawn  up  a  little  synopsis  of  the  elementary 
exercises  which  in  my  earlier  books  have  been  recommended 
for  practice  in  Landscape, — a  subject  which,  if  you  look  back 
to  the  courses  of  my  lectures  here,  you  will  find  almost  affect- 
edly neglected,  just  because  it  was  my  personal  province. 
Other  matters  under  deliberation,  till  I  get  them  either  done, 
or  determined,  I  have  no  mind  to  talk  of ;  but  to-day,  and  in 
the  three  lectures  which  I  hope  to  give  in  the  course  of  the 
summer  term,  I  wish  to  render  such  account  as  is  possible  to 
me  of  the  vivid  phase  into  which  I  find  our  English  art  in 
general  to  have  developed  since  first  I  knew  it :  and,  though 
perhaps  not  without  passing  deprecation  of  some  of  its  ten- 
dencies, to  rejoice  with  you  unqualifiedly  in  the  honour  which 
may  most  justly  be  rendered  to  the  leaders,  whether  passed 
away  or  yet  present  with  us,  of  England's  Modern  Painters. 

I  may  be  permitted,  in  the  reverence  of  sorrow,  to  speak 
first  of  my  much  loved  friend,  Gabriel  RossettL    But,  in  jus- 


REALISTIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


257 


tice,  no  less  than  in  the  kindness  due  to  death,  I  believe  his 
name  should  be  placed  first  on  the  list  of  men,  within  my  own 
range  of  knowledge,  who  have  raised  and  changed  the  spirit 
of  modern  Art:  raised,  in  absolute  attainment;  changed,  in 
direction  of  temper.  Rossetti  added  to  the  before  accepted 
systems  of  colour  in  painting,  one  based  on  the  principles  of 
manuscript  illumination,  which  permits  his  design  to  rival  the 
most  beautiful  qualities  of  painted  glass,  without  losing  either 
the  mystery  or  the  dignity  of  light  and  shade.  And  he  was, 
as  I  believe  it  is  now  generally  admitted,  the  chief  intellectual 
force  in  the  establishment  of  the  modern  romantic  school  in 
England. 

Those  who  are  acquainted  with  my  former  wTritings  must 
be  aware  that  I  use  the  word  6  romantic '  always  in  a  noble 
sense  ;  meaning  the  habit  of  regarding  the  external  and  real 
world  as  a  singer  of  Romaunts  would  have  regarded  it  in  the 
middle  ages,  and  as  Scott,  Burns,  Byron,  and  Tennyson  have 
regarded  it  in  our  own  times.  But,  as  Rossetti's  colour  was 
based  on  the  former  art  of  illumination,  so  his  romance  wras 
based  on  traditions  of  earlier  and  more  sacred  origin  than 
those  which  have  inspired  our  highest  modern  romantic  liter- 
ature. That  literature  has  in  all  cases  remained  strongest  in 
dealing  with  contemporary  fact.  The  genius  of  Tennyson  is 
at  its  highest  in  the  poems  of  '  Maud/  '  In  Memoriam,'  and  the 
'  Northern  Farmer  ' ;  but  that  of  Rossetti,  as  of  his  greatest 
disciple,  is  seen  only  when  on  pilgrimage  in  Palestine. 

I  trust  that  Mr.  Holman  Hunt  will  not  think  that  in  speak- 
ing of  him  as  Rossetti's  disciple  I  derogate  from  the  respect 
due  to  his  own  noble  and  determined  genius.  In  all  living 
schools  it  chances  often  that  the  disciple  is  greater  than  his 
master  ;  and  it  is  always  the  first  sign  of  a  dominant  and 
splendid  intellect,  that  it  knows  of  whom  to  learn.  Rossetti's 
great  poetical  genius  justified  my  claiming  for  him  total,  and, 
I  believe,  earliest,  originality  in  the  sternly  materialistic, 
though  deeply  reverent  veracity,  with  wThich  alone,  of  all 
schools  of  painters,  this  brotherhood  of  Englishmen  has  con- 
ceived the  circumstances  of  the  life  of  Christ.  And  if  I  had 
to  choose  one  picture  which  represented  in  purity  and  com- 


258 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


pleteness,  this  manner  of  their  thought,  it  would  be  Eossetti's 
'  Virgin  in  the  House  of  St.  John.' 

But  when  Holman  Hunt,  under  such  impressive  influence, 
quitting  virtually  forever  the  range  of  worldly  subjects,  to 
which  belonged  the  pictures  of  Valentine  and  Sylvia,  of 
Claudio  and  Isabel,  and  of  the  '  Awakening  Conscience,'  rose 
into  the  spiritual  passion  which  first  expressed  itself  in  the 
'  Light  of  the  World/  an  instant  and  quite  final  difference 
was  manifested  between  his  method  of  conception,  and  that 
of  his  forerunner.  To  Eossetti,  the  Old  and  New  Testaments 
were  only  the  greatest  poems  he  knew ;  and  he  painted 
scenes  from  them  with  no  more  actual  belief  in  their  relation 
to  the  present  life  and  business  of  men  than  he  gave  also  to  the 
Morte  d' Arthur  and  the  Vita  Nuova.  But  to  Holman  Hunt, 
the  story  of  the  New  Testament,  when  once  his  mind  entirely 
fastened  on  it,  became  what  it  was  to  an  old  Puritan,  or  an  old 
Catholic  of  true  blood, — not  merely  a  Eeality,  not  merely  the 
greatest  of  Eealities,  but  the  only  Eeality.  So  that  there  is 
nothing  in  the  earth  for  him  any  more  that  does  not  speak  of 
that ; — there  is  no  course  of  thought  nor  force  of  skill  for  him, 
but  it  springs  from  and  ends  in  that. 

So  absolutely,  and  so  involuntarily — I  use  the  word  in  its 
noblest  meaning — is  this  so  with  him,  that  in  all  subjects 
which  fall  short  in  the  religious  element,  his  power  also  is 
shortened,  and  he  does  those  things  worst  which  are  easiest 
to  other  men. 

Beyond  calculation,  greater,  beyond  comparison,  happier, 
than  Eossetti,  in  this  sincerity,  he  is  distinguished  also  from 
him  by  a  respect  for  physical  and  material  truth  which  ren-. 
ders  his  work  far  more  generally,  far  more  serenely,  exem- 
plary. 

The  specialty  of  colour-method  which  I  have  signalized  in 
Eossetti,  as  founded  on  missal  painting,  is  in  exactly  that  de- 
gree conventional  and  unreal.  Its  light  is  not  the  light  of  sun- 
shine itself,  but  of  sunshine  diffused  through  coloured  glass. 
And  in  object-painting  he  not  only  refused,  partly  through  idle- 
ness, partly  in  the  absolute  want  of  opportunity  for  the  study 
of  nature  involved  in  his  choice  of  abode  in  a  garret  at  Black- 


REALISTIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


259 


friars, — refused, — I  say,  the  natural  aid  of  pure  landscape  and 
sky,  but  wilfully  perverted  and  lacerated  his  powers  of  concep- 
tion with  Chinese  puzzles  and  Japanese  monsters,  until  his 
foliage  looked  generally  fit  for  nothing  but  a  fire-screen,  and 
his  landscape  distances  like  the  furniture  of  a  Noah's  Ark  from 
the  nearest  toy-shop.  Whereas  Holman  Hunt,  in  the  very 
beginning  of  his  career,  fixed  his  mind,  as  a  colourist,  on  the 
true  representation  of  actual  sunshine,  of  growing  leafage,  of 
living  rock,  of  heavenly  cloud  ;  and  his  long  and  resolute 
exile,  deeply  on  many  grounds  to  be  regretted  both  for  him- 
self and  us,  bound  only  closer  to  his  heart  the  mighty  forms 
and  hues  of  God's  earth  and  sky,  and  the  mysteries  of  its  ap- 
pointed lights  of  the  day  and  of  the  night — opening  on  the 
foam — "  Of  desolate  seas,  in — Sacred — lands  forlorn." 

You  have,  for  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years,  been  accustomed 
to  see  among  the  pictures  principally  characteristic  of  the 
English  school,  a  certain  average  number  of  attentive  studies, 
both  of  sunshine,  and  the  forms  of  lower  nature,  whose  beauty 
is  meant  to  be  seen  by  its  light.  Those  of  Mr.  Brett  may  be 
named  with  especial  praise  ;  and  you  will  probably  many  of 
you  remember  with  pleasure  the  study  of  cattle  on  a  High- 
land moor  in  the  evening,  by  Mr.  Davis,  which  in  last  year's 
Academy  carried  us  out,  at  the  end  of  the  first  room,  into 
sudden  solitude  among  the  hills.  But  we  forget,  in  the 
enjoyment  of  these  new  and  healthy  pleasures  connected  with 
painting,  to  whom  we  first  owe  them  all.  The  apparently  un- 
important picture  by  Holman  Hunt,  '  The  strayed  Sheep,' 
which — painted  thirty  years  ago — you  may  perhaps  have  seen 
last  autumn  in  the  rooms  of  the  Art  Society  in  Bond  Street,  at 
once  achieved  all  that  can  ever  be  done  in  that  kind  :  it  will 
not  be  surpassed — it  is  little  likely  to  be  rivalled — by  the  best 
efforts  of  the  times  to  come.  It  showed  to  us,  for  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  art,  the  absolutely  faithful  balances  of 
colour  and  shade  by  which  actual  sunshine  might  be  trans- 
posed into  a  key  in  which  the  harmonies  possible  with  mate- 
rial pigments  should  yet  produce  the  same  impressions  upon 
the  mind  which  were  caused  by  the  light  itself. 

And  remember,  all  previous  work  whatever  had  been  either 


260 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


subdued  into  narrow  truth,  or  only  by  convention  suggestive 
of  the  greater,  Claude's  sunshine  is  colourless, — only  the 
golden  haze  of  a  quiet  afternoon  ; — so  also  that  of  Cuyp  : 
Turner's,  so  bold  in  conventionalism  that  it  is  credible  to 
few  of  you,  and  offensive  to  many.  But  the  pure  natural 
green  and  tufted  gold  of  the  herbage  in  the  hollow  of  that 
little  sea-cliff  must  be  recognized  for  true  merely  by  a  minute's 
pause  of  attention.  Standing  long  before  the  picture,  you 
were  soothed  by  it,  and  raised  into  such  peace  as  you  are  in- 
tended to  find  in  the  glory  and  the  stillness  of  summer,  pos- 
sessing all  things. 

I  cannot  say  of  this  power  of  true  sunshine,  the  least  thing 
that  I  would.  Often  it  is  said  to  me  by  kindly  readers,  that 
I  have  taught  them  to  see  what  they  had  not  seen :  and  yet 
never — in  all  the  many  volumes  of  effort — have  I  been  able  to 
tell  them  my  own  feelings  about  what  I  myself  see.  You  may 
suppose  that  I  have  been  all  this  time  trying  to  express  my 
personal  feelings  about  Nature.  No  ;  not  a  whit.  I  soon 
found  I  could  not,  and  did  not  try  to.  All  my  writing  is  only 
the  effort  to  distinguish  what  is  constantly,  and  to  all  men, 
loveable,  and  if  they  will  look,  lovely,  from  what  is  vile,  or 
empty, — or,  to  well  trained  eyes  and  hearts,  loathsome  ;  but 
you  will  never  find  me  talking  about  what  /  feel,  or  what  I 
think.  I  know  that  fresh  air  is  more  wholesome  than  fog, 
and  that  blue  sky  is  more  beautiful  than  black,  to  people  hap- 
pily born  and  bred.  But  you  will  never  find,  except  of  late, 
and  for  special  reasons,  effort  of  mine  to  say  how  I  am  myself 
oppressed  or  comforted  by  such  things. 

This  is  partly  my  steady  principle,  and  partly  it  is  inca- 
pacity. Forms  of  personal  feeling  in  this  kind  can  only  be 
expressed  in  poetry  ;  and  I  am  not  a  poet,  nor  in  any  articu- 
late manner  could  I  the  least  explain  to  you  what  a  deep 
element  of  life,  for  me,  is  in  the  sight  merely  of  pure  sunshine 
on  a  bank  of  living  grass. 

More  than  any  pathetic  music, — yet  I  love  music,— more 
than  any  artful  colour — and  yet  I  love  colour, — more  than 
other  merely  material  thing  visible  to  these  old  eyes,  in  earth 
or  sky.    It  is  so,  I  believe,  with  many  of  you  also, — with  many 


REALISTIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


2G1 


more  than  know  it  of  themselves  ;  and  this  picture,  were  it 
only  the  first  that  cast  true  sunshine  on  the  grass,  would  have 
been  in  that  virtue  sacred  :  but  in  its  deeper  meaning,  it  is, 
actually,  the  first  of  Hunt's  sacred  paintings — the  first  in 
which,  for  those  who  can  read,  the  substance  of  the  conviction 
and  the  teaching  of  his  after  life  is  written,  though  not  dis- 
tinctly told  till  afterwards  in  the  symbolic  picture  of  4  The 
Scapegoat.'  "All  we  like  sheep  have  gone  astray,  we  have 
turned  every  one  to  his  own  way,  and  the  Lord  hath  laid  on 
Him  the  iniquity  of  us  all." 

None  of  you,  who  have  the  least  acquaintance  with  the 
general  tenor  of  my  own  teaching,  will  suspect  in  me  any  bias 
towards  the  doctrine  of  vicarious  Sacrifice,  as  it  is  taught  by 
the  modern  Evangelical  Preacher.  But  the  great  mystery  of 
the  idea  of  Sacrifice  itself,  which  has  been  manifested  as  one 
united  and  solemn  instinct  by  all  thoughtful  and  affectionate 
races,  since  the  wide  world  became  peopled,  is  founded  on  the 
secret  truth  of  benevolent  energy  which  aP  men  who  have 
tried  to  gain  it  have  learned — that  you  cannot  save  men  from 
death  but  by  facing  it  for  them,  nor  from  sin  but  by  resisting 
it  for  them.  It  is,  on  the  contrary,  the  favourite,  and  the 
worst  falsehood  of  modern  infidel  morality,  that  you  serve 
your  fellow-creatures  best  by  getting  a  percentage  out  of 
their  pockets,  and  will  best  provide  for  starving  multitudes 
by  regaling  yourselves.  Some  day  or  other — probably  now 
very  soon — too  probably  by  heavy  afflictions  of  t^e  State,  we 
shall  be  taught  that  it  is  not  so  ;  and  that  all  the  true  good 
and  glory  even  of  this  world — not  to  speak  of  any  that  is  to 
come,  must  be  bought  still,  as  it  always  has  been,  with  our 
toil,  and  with  our  tears.  That  is  the  final  doctrine,  the  inevi- 
table one,  not  of  Christianity  only,  but  of  all  Heroic  Faith 
and  Heroic  Being  ;  and  the  first  trial  questions  of  a  true  soul 
to  itself  must  always  be, — Have  I  a  religion,  have  I  s»  country, 
have  I  a  love,  that  I  am  ready  to  die  for  ? 

That  is  the  Doctrine  of  Sacrifice  ;  the  faith  in  which  Isaac 
was  bound,  in  which  Iphigenia  died,  in  which  the  great  army 
of  martyrs  have  suffered,  and  by  which  all  victories  in  the 
cause  of  justice  and  happiness  have  been  gained  by  »h3  5nen 


262 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


who  became  more  than  conquerors,  through  Him  that  loved 
them. 

And  yet  there  is  a  deeper  and  stranger  sacrifice  in  the  sys- 
tem of  this  creation  than  theirs.  To  resolute  self-denial,  and 
to  adopted  and  accepted  suffering,  the  reward  is  in  the  con- 
science sure,  and  in  the  gradual  advance  and  predominance  of 
good,  practically  and  to  all  men  visible.  But  what  shall  we 
say  of  involuntary  suffering, — the  misery  of  the  poor  and  the 
simple,  the  agony  of  the  .  helpless  and  the  innocent,  and  the 
perishing,  as  it  seems,  in  vain,  and  the  mother  weeping  for 
the  children  of  whom  she  knows  only  that  they  are  not? 

I  saw  it  lately  given  as  one  of  the  incontrovertible  discov- 
eries of  modern  science,  that  all  our  present  enjoyments  were 
only  the  outcome  of  an  infinite  series  of  pain.  I  do  not  know 
how  far  the  statement  fairly  represented — but  it  announced  as 
incapable  of  contradiction — this  melancholy  theory.  If  such 
a  doctrine  is  indeed  abroad  among  you,  let  me  comfort  some, 
at  least,  with  its  absolute  denial.  That  in  past  aeons,  the  pain 
suffered  throughout  the  living  universe  passes  calculation,  is 
true  ;  that  it  is  infinite,  is  untrue  ;  and  that  all  our  enjoy- 
ments are  based  on  it,  contemptibly  untrue.  For,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  pleasure  felt  through  the  living  universe  dur- 
ing past  ages  is  incalculable  also,  and  in  higher  magnitudes. 
Our  own  talents,  enjoyments,  and  prosperities,  are  the  out- 
come of  that  happiness  with  its  energies,  not  of  the  death 
that  ended  them.  So  manifestly  is  this  so,  that  all  men  of 
hitherto  widest  reach  in  natural  science  and  logical  thought 
have  been  led  to  fix  their  minds  only  on  the  innumerable 
paths  of  pleasure,  and  ideals  of  beauty,  which  are  traced  on 
the  scroll  of  creation,  and  are  no  more  tempted  to  arraign  as 
unjust,  or  even  lament  as  unfortunate,  the  essential  equivalent 
of  sorrow,  than  in  the  seven-fold  glories  of  sunrise  to  depre- 
cate the  mingling  of  shadow  with  its  light. 

This,  however,  though  it  has  always  been  the  sentiment  of 
the  healthiest  natural  philosophy,  has  never,  as  you  well  know, 
been  the  doctrine  of  Christianity.  That  religion,  as  it  comes 
to  us  with  the  promise  of  a  kingdom  in  which  there  shall  be 
no  more  Death,  neither  sorrow  nor  crying,  ho  it  has  always 


REALISTIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


2G3 


brought  with  it  the  confession  of  calamity  to  be  at  present  in 
patience  of  mystery  endured  ;  and  not  by  us  only,  but  ap- 
parently for  our  sakes,  by  the  lower  creatures,  for  whom  it 
is  inconceivable  that  any  good  should  be  the  final  goal  of  ill. 
Toward  these,  the  one  lesson  we  have  to  learn  is  that  of  pity. 
For  all  human  loss  and  pain,  there  is  no  comfort,  no  interpre- 
tation worth  a  thought,  except  only  in  the  doctrine  of  the 
Resurrection  ; — of  which  doctrine,  remember,  it  is  an  immut- 
able historical  fact  that  all  the  beautiful  work,  and  all  the 
happy  existence  of  mankind,  hitherto,  has  depended  on,  or 
consisted  in,  the  hope  of  it. 

The  picture  of  which  I  came  to-day  chiefly  to  speak,  as  a 
symbol  of  that  doctrine,  was  incomplete  when  I  saw  it,  and  is 
so  still  ;  but  enough  was  done  to  constitute  it  the  most  im- 
portant work  of  Hunt's  life,  as  yet ;  and  if  health  is  granted 
to  him  for  its  completion,  it  will,  both  in  reality  and  in  esteem, 
be  the  greatest  religious  painting  of  our  time. 

You  know  that  in  the  most  beautiful  former  conceptions  of 
the  Flight  into  Egypt,  the  Holy  Family  were  always  repre- 
sented as  watched  over,  and  ministered  to,  by  attendant  an- 
gels. But  only  the  safety  and  peace  of  the  Divine  Child  and 
its  mother  are  thought  of.  No  sadness  or  wonder  of  medita- 
tion returns  to  the  desolate  homes  of  Bethlehem. 

But  in  this  English  picture  all  the  story  of  the  escape,  as 
of  the  flight,  is  told,  in  fulness  of  peace,  and  yet  of  compassion. 
The  travel  is  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  the  way  unseen  and 
unknown  ; — but,  partly  stooping  from  the  starlight,  and  partly 
floating  on  the  desert  mirage,  move,  with  the  Holy  Family  the 
glorified  souls  of  the  Innocents.  Clear  in  celestial  light,  and 
gathered  into  child-garlands  of  gladness,  they  look  to  the 
Child  in  whom  they  live,  and  yet,  for  them  to  die.  "Waters 
of  the  River  of  Life  flow  before  on  the  sands :  the  Christ 
stretches  out  His  arms  to  the  nearest  of  them  ; — leaning  from 
His  mother's  breast. 

To  how  many  bereaved  households  may  not  this  happy 
vision  of  conquered  death  bring  in  the  future,  days  of  peace ! 

I  do  not  care  to  speak  of  other  virtues  in  this  design  than 
those  of  its  majestic  thought, — but  you  may  well  imagine 


2G4 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


for  yourselves  how  the  painter's  quite  separate  and,  in  its 
skill,  better  than  magical,  power  of  giving  effects  of  intense 
light,  has  aided  the  effort  of  his  imagination,  while  the  pas- 
sion of  his  subject  has  developed  in  him  a  swift  grace  of  in- 
vention which  for  my  own  part  I  never  recognized  in  his  de- 
sign till  now.  I  can  say  with  deliberation  that  none  even  of 
the  most  animated  groups  and  processions  of  children  which 
constitute  the  loveliest  sculpture  of  the  Robbias  and  Dona- 
tello,  can  more  than  rival  the  freedom  and  felicity  of  motion, 
or  the  subtlety  of  harmonious  line,  in  the  happy  wreath  of 
these  angel-children. 

Of  this  picture  I  came  to-day  chiefly  to  speak,  nor  will  I 
disturb  the  poor  impression  which  my  words  can  give  you  of 
it  by  any  immediate  reference  to  other  pictures  by  our  lead- 
ing masters.  But  it  is  not,  of  course,  among  these  men  of 
splendid  and  isolated  imagination  that  you  can  learn  the 
modes  of  regarding  common  and  familiar  nature  which  you 
must  be  content  to  be  governed  by — in  early  lessons.  I 
count  myself  fortunate,  in  renewing  my  effort  to  systematize 
these,  that  I  can  now  place  in  the  schools,  or  at  least  lend, 
first  one  and  then  another— some  exemplary  drawings  by 
young  people — youths  and  girls  of  your  own  age — clever 
ones,  yes, — but  not  cleverer  than  a  great  many  of  you  : — emi- 
nent only,  among  the  young  people  of  the  present  day  whom 
I  chance  to  know,  in  being  extremely  old-fashioned  ; — and, — 
don't  be  spiteful  when  I  say  so, — but  really  they  all  are,  all  the 
four  of  them — two  lads  and  two  lassies— quite  provokingly 
good. 

Lads,  not  exactly  lads  perhaps — one  of  them  is  already 
master  of  the  works  in  the  ducal  palace  at  Venice  ;  lassies,  to 
an  old  man  of  sixty-four,  who  is  vexed  to  be  beaten  by  them 
in  his  own  business — a  little  older,  perhaps,  than  most  of  the 
lassies  here,  but  still  brightly  young  ;  and,  mind  you,  not  ar- 
tists, but  drawing  in  the  joy  of  their  hearts — and  the  builder 
at  Venice  only  in  his  play-time — yet,  I  believe  you  will  find 
these,  and  the  other  drawings  I  speak  of,  more  helpful,  and 
as  I  just  said,  exemplary,  than  any  I  have  yet  been  able  to 
find  for  you  ;  and  of  these,  little  stories  are  to  be  told,  which 


REALISTIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING.  265 


bear  much  on  all  that  I  have  been  most  earnestly  trying  to 
make  you  assured  of,  both  in  art  and  in  real  life. 

Let  me,  however,  before  going  farther,  say,  to  relieve  your 
minds  from  unhappily  too  well-grounded  panic,  that  I  have 
no  intention  of  making  my  art  lectures  any  more  one-half 
sermons.  All  the  pieces  of  theological  or  other  grave  talk 
which  seemed  to  me  a  necessary  part  of  my  teaching  here, 
have  been  already  spoken,  and  printed  ;  and  are,  I  only  fear 
at  too  great  length,  legible.  Nor  have  I  any  more  either 
strength  or  passion  to  spare  in  matters  capable  of  dispute.  I 
must  in  silent  resignation  leave  all  of  you  who  are  led  by  your 
fancy,  or  induced  by  the  fashion  of  the  time,  to  follow,  with- 
out remonstrance  on  my  part,  those  modes  of  studying  organic 
beauty  for  which  preparation  must  be  made  by  depriving  the 
animal  under  investigation  first  of  its  soul  within,  and  secondly 
of  its  skin  without.  But  it  chances  to-day,  that  the  merely 
literal  histories  of  the  drawings  which  I  bring  with  me  to 
show  you  or  to  lend,  do  carry  with  them  certain  evidences  of 
the  practical  force  of  religious  feeling  on  the  imagination, 
both  in  artists  and  races,  such  as  I  cannot,  if  I  would,  over- 
look, and  such  as  I  think  you  will  yourselves,  even  those  who 
have  least  sympathy  with  them,  not  without  admiration  rec- 
ognise. 

For  a  long  time  I  used  to  say,  in  all  my  elementary  books, 
that,  except  in  a  graceful  and  minor  way,  women  could  not 
paint  or  draw.  I  am  beginning,  lately,  to  bow  myself  to  the 
much  more  delightful  conviction  that  nobody  else  can.  How 
this  very  serious  change  of  mind  was  first  induced  in  me  it 
is,  if  not  necessary,  I  hope  pardonable,  to  delay  you  by  tell- 
ing. 

When  I  was  at  Venice  in  1876 — it  is  almost  the  only  thing 
that  makes  me  now  content  in  having  gone  there. — two  Eng- 
lish ladies,  mother  and  daughter,  were  staying  at  the  same 
hotel,  the  Europa.  One  day  the  mother  sent  me  a  pretty 
little  note  asking  if  I  would  look  at  the  young  lady's  draw- 
ings. On  my  somewhat  sulky  permission,  a  few  were  sent,  in 
which  I  saw  there  was  extremely  right-minded  and  careful 
work,  almost  totally  without  knowledge.    I  sent  back  a  re- 


266 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


quest  that  the  young  lady  might  be  allowed  to  come  out 
sketching  with  me.  I  took  her  over  into  the  pretty  cloister 
of  the  church  of  La  Salute,  and  set  her,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  to  draw  a  little  piece  of  gray  marble  with  the  sun 
upon  it,  rightly.  She  may  have  had  one  lesson  after  that — 
she  may  have  had  two  ;  the  three,  if  there  were  three,  seem 
to  me,  now,  to  have  been  only  one  !  She  seemed  to  learn 
everything  the  instant  she  was  shown  it — and  ever  so  much 
more  than  she  was  taught.  Next  year  she  went  away  to 
Norway,  on  one  of  these  frolics  which  are  now-a-days  neces- 
sary to  girl-existence  ;  and  brought  back  a  little  pocket-book, 
which  she  thought  nothing  of,  and  which  I  begged  of  her  : 
and  have  framed  half  a  dozen  leaves  of  it  (for  a  loan  to  you, 
only,  mind,)  till  you  have  enough  copied  them. 

Of  the  minute  drawings  themselves,  I  need  not  tell  you — 
for  you  will  in  examining  them,  beyond  all  telling,  feel,  that 
they  are  exactly  what  we  should  all  like  to  be  able  to  do  ;  and 
in  the  plainest  and  frankest  manner  show  us  how  to  do  it — 
or,  more  modestly  speaking,  how,  if  heaven  help  us,  it  can  be 
done.  They  can  only  be  seen,  as  you  see  Bewick  vignettes, 
with  a  magnifying  glass,  and  they  are  patterns  to  you,  there- 
fore, only  of  pocket-book  work ;  but  what  skill  is  more  pre- 
cious to  a  traveller  than  that  of  minute,  instantaneous,  and 
unerring  record  of  the  things  that  are  precisely  best?  For  in 
this,  the  vignettes  upon  these  leaves  differ,  widely  as  the  arc 
of  heaven,  from  the  bitter  truths  of  Bewick.  Nothing  is  re- 
corded here  but  what  is  lovely  and  honourable  :  how  much 
there  is  of  both  in  the  peasant  life  of  Norway,  many  an  Eng- 
lish traveller  has  recognised  ;  but  not  always  looking  for  the 
cause  or  enduring  the  conclusion,  that  its  serene  beauty,  its 
hospitable  patriotism,  its  peaceful  courage,  and  its  happy 
virtue,  were  dependent  on  facts  little  resembling  our  modern 
English  institutions  ; — namely,  that  the  Norwegian  peasant 
"  is  a  free  man  on  the  scanty  bit  of  ground  which  he  has  in- 
herited from  his  forefathers  ;  that  the  Bible  is  to  be  found  in 
every  hut ;  that  the  schoolmaster  wanders  from  farm  to  farm  ; 
that  no  Norwegian  is  confirmed  who  does  not  know  how  to 
read  ;  and  no  Norwegian  is  allowed  to  marry  who  has  not 


REALISTIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


267 


been  confirmed."  I  quote  straightforwardly,  (missing  only 
some  talk  of  Parliaments  ;  but  not  caring  otherwise  how  far 
the  sentences  are  with  my  own  notions,  or  against,)  from  Dr. 
Hartwig's  collected  descriptions  of  the  Polar  wrorld.  I  am 
not  myself  altogether  sure  of  the  wisdom  of  teaching  ever}T- 
body  to  read  :  but  might  be  otherwise  persuaded  if  here,  as  in. 
Norway,  every  town  had  its  public  library,  "  while  in  many 
districts  the  peasants  annually  contribute  a  dollar  towards  a 
collection  of  books,  which,  under  the  care  of  the  priest,  are 
lent  out  to  all  comers." 

I  observe  that  the  word  £  priest '  has  of  late  become  more 
than  ever  offensive  to  the  popular  English  mind ;  and  pause 
only  to  say  that  in  whatever  capacity,  or  authority,  the  essen- 
tial function  of  a  public  librarian  must  in  every  decent  and 
rational  country  be  educational ;  and  consist  in  the  choosing, 
for  the  public,  books  authoritatively  or  essentially  true,  free 
from  vain  speculation  or  evil  suggestion  :  and  in  noble  history 
or  cheerful  fancy,  to  the  utmost,  entertaining. 

One  kind  of  periodical  literature,  it  seems  to  me  as  I  study 
these  drawings,  must  at  all  events  in  Norway  be  beautifully 
forbidden, — the  "Journal  des  Modes."  You  will  see  evidence 
here  that  the  bright  fancying  alike  of  maidens'  and  matrons' 
dress,  capable  of  prettiest  variation  in  its  ornament,  is  yet 
ancestral  in  its  form,  and  the  white  caps,  in  their  daily  purity, 
have  the  untroubled  constancy,  of  the  seashell  and  the  snow. 

Next  to  these  illustrations  of  Norwegian  economy,  I  have 
brought  you  a  drawing  of  deeper  and  less  imitable  power  :  it 
is  by  a  girl  of  quite  peculiar  gift,  whose  life  has  hitherto  been 
spent  in  quiet  and  unassuming  devotion  to  her  art,  and  to  its 
subjects.  I  would  fain  have  said,  an  English  girl,  but  all  my 
prejudices  have  lately  had  the  axe  laid  to  their  roots  one  by 
one, — she  is  an  American  !  But  for  twenty  years  she  has  lived 
with  her  mother  among  the  peasants  of  Tuscany — under  their 
olive  avenues  in  summer — receiving  them,  as  they  choose  to 
come  to  chat  with  her,  in  her  little  room  by  Santa  Maria  No- 
vella in  Florence  during  winter.  They  come  to  her  as  their 
loving  guide,  and  friend,  and  sister  in  all  their  work,  and 
pleasure,  and — suffering.    I  lean  on  the  last  word. 


268 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


For  those  of  you  who  have  entered  into  the  heart  of  modern 
Italy  know  that  there  is  probably  no  more  oppressed,  no  more 
afflicted  order  of  gracious  and  blessed  creatures— God's  own 
poor,  who  have  not  yet  received  their  consolation,  than  the 
mountain  peasantry  of  Tuscany  and  Eomagna.  What  their 
minds  are,  and  what  their  state,  and  what  their  treatment, 
those  who  do  not  know  Italy  may  best  learn,  if  they  can  bear 
the  grief  of  learning  it,  from  Ouida's  photographic  story  of 
4  A  Village  Commune '  ;  yet  amidst  all  this,  the  sweetness  of 
their  natural  character  is  undisturbed,  their  ancestral  religious 
faith  unshaken — their  purity  and  simplicity  of  household  life 
un corrupted.  They  may  perish,  by  our  neglect  or  our  cruelty, 
but  they  cannot  be  degraded.  Among  them,  as  I  have  told 
you,  this  American  girl  has  lived— from  her  youth  up,  with 
her  (now  widowed)  mother,  who  is  as  eagerly,  and  which  is 
the  chief  matter,  as  sympathizingly  benevolent  as  herself. 
The  peculiar  art  gift  of  the  younger  lady  is  rooted  in  this 
sympathy,  the  gift  of  truest  expression  of  feelings  serene  in 
their  lightness  ;  and  a  love  of  beauty — divided  almost  between 
the  peasants  and  the  flowers  that  live  round  Santa  Maria  del 
Fiore.  This  power  she  has  trained  by  its  limitation,  severe, 
and  in  my  experience  unexampled,  to  work  in  light  and  shade 
only,  with  the  pure  pen  line  :  but  the  total  strength  of  her 
intellect  and  fancy  being  concentrated  in  this  engraver's 
method,  it  expresses  of  every  subject  what  she  loves  best,  in 
simplicity  undebased  by  any  accessory  of  minor  emotion. 

She  has  thus  drawn,  in  faithfulest  portraiture  of  these 
peasant  Florentines,  the  loveliness  of  the  young  and  the 
majesty  of  the  aged  :  she  has  listened  to  their  legends,  writ- 
ten down  their  sacred  songs  ;  and  illustrated,  with  the  sanc- 
tities of  mortal  life,  their  traditions  of  immortality. 

I  have  brought  you  only  one  drawing  to-day  ;  in  the  spring 
I  trust  you  shall  have  many, — but  this  is  enough,  just  now. 
It  is  drawn  from  memory  only,  but  the  fond  memory  which 
is  as  sure  as  sight — it  is  the  last  sleep  from  which  she  waked 
on  this  earth,  of  a  young  Florentine  girl,  who  had  brought 
heaven  down  to  earth,  as  truly  as  ever  saint  of  old,  while  she 
lived,  and  of  whom  even  I,  who  never  saw  her,  cannot  believe 


REALISTIC  SCHOOLS  OF  FAINTING.  269 


that  she  is  dead.  Her  friend,  who  drew  this  memorial  of  her, 
wrote  also  the  short  story  of  her  life,  which  I  trust  you  will 
soon  be  able  to  read. 

Of  this,  and  of  the  rest  of  these  drawings,  I  have  much  to 
say  to  you  ;  but  this  first  and  last, — that  they  are  representa- 
tions of  beautiful  human  nature,  such  as  could  only  have  been 
found  among  people  living  in  the  pure  Christian  faith — such 
as  it  was,  and  is,  since  the  twelfth  century  ;  and  that  although, 
as  I  said,  I  have  returned  to  Oxford  only  to  teach  you  techni- 
cal things,  this  truth  must  close  the  first  words,  as  it  must  be 
the  sum  of  all  that  I  may  be  permitted  to  speak  to  you, — that 
the  history  of  the  art  of  the  Greeks  is  the  eulogy  of  their 
virtues  ;  and  the  history  of  Art  after  the  fall  of  Greece,  is  that 
of  the  Obedience  and  the  Faith  of  Christianity. 

There  are  two  points  of  practical  importance  which  I  must 
leave  under  your  consideration.  I  am  confirmed  by  Mr.  Mac- 
donald  in  my  feeling  that  some  kind  of  accurately  testing  ex- 
amination is  necessary  to  give  consistency  and  efficiency  to 
the  present  drawing-school.  I  have  therefore  determined  to 
give  simple  certificates  of  merit,  annually,  to  the  students  who 
have  both  passed  through  the  required  course,  and  at  the  end 
of  three  years  have  produced  work  satisfactory  to  Mr.  Mac- 
donald  and  myself.  After  Easter,  I  will  at  once  look  over  such 
drawings  as  Mr.  Macdonald  thinks  well  to  show  me,  by  stu- 
dents wrho  have  till  now  complied  with  the  rules  of  the  school  ; 
and  give  certificates  accordingly  ; — henceforward,  if  my  health 
is  spared,  annually :  and  I  trust  that  the  advantage  of  this 
simple  and  uncompetitive  examination  will  be  felt  by  succeed- 
ing holders  of  the  Slade  Professorship,  and  in  time  commend 
itself  enough  to  be  held  as  a  part  of  the  examination  system 
of  the  University. 

Uncompetitive,  always.  The  drawing  certificate  will  imply 
no  compliment,  and  convey  no  distinction.  It  will  mean 
merely  that  the  student  who  obtains  it  knows  perspective, 
with  the  scientific  laws  of  light  and  colour  in  illustrating  form, 
and  has  attained  a  certain  proficiency  in  the  management  of 
the  pencil. 

The  second  point  is  of  more  importance  and  more  difficulty. 


270 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


I  now  see  my  way  to  making  the  collection  of  examples  in 
the  schools,  quite  representative  of  all  that  such  a  series  ought 
to  be.  But  there  is  extreme  difficulty  in  finding  any  books 
that  can  be  put  into  the  hands  of  the  home  student  which 
may  supply  the  place  of  an  academy.  I  do  not  mean  merely 
as  lessons  in  drawing,  but  in  the  formation  of  taste,  which, 
when  we  analyse  it,  means  of  course  merely  the  right  direction 
of  feeling. 

I  hope  that  in  many  English  households  there  may  be  found 
already— I  trust  some  day  there  may  be  found  wherever  there 
are  children  who  can  enjoy  them,  and  especially  in  country 
village  schools — the  three  series  of  designs  by  Ludwig  Rich- 
ter,  in  illustration  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  of  the  Sunday,  and 
of  the  Seasons.  Perfect  as  types  of  easy  line  drawing,  exqui- 
site in  ornamental  composition,  and  refined  to  the  utmost  in 
ideal  grace,  they  represent  all  that  is  simplest,  purest,  and 
happiest  in  human  life,  all  that  is  most  strengthening  and 
comforting  in  nature  and  religion.  They  are  enough,  in 
themselves,  to  show  that  whatever  its  errors,  whatever  its 
backslidings,  this  century  of  ours  has  in  its  heart  understood 
and  fostered,  more  than  any  former  one,  the  joys  of  family 
affection,  and  of  household  piety. 

For  the  former  fairy  of  the  woods,  Richter  has  brought  to 
you  the  angel  on  the  threshold  ;  for  the  former  promises  of 
distant  Paradise,  he  has  brought  the  perpetual  blessing, 
"  God  be  with  you  "  :  amidst  all  the  turmoil  and  speeding  to 
and  fro,  and  wandering  of  heart  and  eyes  which  perplex  our 
paths,  and  betray  our  wills,  he  speaks  to  us  continuous  me- 
morial of  the  message — "  My  Peace  I  leave  with  you." 


LECTURE  II. 

Mythic  Schools  of  Painting. 

E.   BTJRNE- JONES  AND  Gr.  F.  WATTS. 

It  is  my  purpose,  in  the  lectures  I  may  be  permitted  hence- 
forward to  give  in  Oxford,  so  to  arrange  them  as  to  dispense 
with  notes  in  subsequent  printing  ;  and,  if  I  am  forced  for 


MYTHIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


271 


shortness,  or  in  oversight,  to  leave  anything  insufficiently  ex- 
plained, to  complete  the  passage  in  the  next  following  lecture, 
or  in  any  one,  though  after  an  interval,  which  may  naturally 
recur  to  the  subject.  Thus  the  printed  text  will  always  be 
simply  what  I  have  read,  or  said  ;  and  the  lectures  will  be 
more  closely  and  easily  connected  than  if  I  went  always  on 
without  the  care  of  explanatory  retrospect. 

It  may  have  been  observed,  and  perhaps  with  question  of 
my  meaning,  by  some  readers,  that  in  my  last  lecture  I  used 
the  word  "  materialistic  "  of  the  method  of  conception  com- 
mon to  Rossetti  and  Hunt,  with  the  greater  number  of  their 
scholars.  I  used  that  expression  to  denote  their  peculiar 
tendency  to  feel  and  illustrate  the  relation  of  spiritual  creat- 
ures to  the  substance  and  conditions  of  the  visible  world  ; 
more  especially,  the  familiar,  or  in  a  sort  humiliating,  acci- 
dents or  employments  of  their  earthly  life  ; — as,  for  instance, 
in  the  picture  I  referred  to,  Rossetti's  Virgin  in  the  house  of 
St.  John,  the  Madonna's  being  drawn  at  the  moment  when 
she  rises  to  trim  their  lamp.  In  many  such  cases,  the  inci- 
dents may  of  course  have  symbolical  meaning,  as,  in  the  un- 
finished drawing  by  Rossetti  of  the  Passover,  which  I  have  so 
long  left  with  you,  the  boy  Christ  is  watching  the  blood  struck 
on  the  doorpost  ; — but  the  peculiar  value  and  character  of  the 
treatment  is  in  what  I  called  its  material  veracity,  compelling 
the  spectator's  belief,  if  he  have  the  instinct  of  belief  in  him 
at  all,  in  the  thing's  having  verily  happened  ;  and  not  being  a 
mere  poetical  fancy.  If  the  spectator,  on  the  contrary,  have 
no  capacity  of  belief  in  him,  the  use  of  such  representation  is 
in  making  him  detect  his  own  incredulity,  and  recognise  that 
in  his  former  dreamy  acceptance  of  the  story,  he  had  never 
really  asked  himself  whether  these  things  were  so. 

Thus,  in  what  I  believe  to  have  been  in  actual  time  the 
first — though  I  do  not  claim  for  it  the  slightest  lead  in  sug- 
gestive influence,  yet  the  first  dated  example  of  such  literal 
and  close  realization — my  own  endeavour  in  the  third  volume 
of  '  Modern  Painters '  to  describe  the  incidents  preceding  the 
charge  to  Peter,  I  have  fastened  on  the  words,  "  He  girt 
his  fisher's  coat  about  him,  and  did  cast  himself  into  the  sea;* 


272 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


following  them  out  with,  "  Then,  to  Peter,  all  wet  and  shiver- 
ing, staring  at  Christ  in  the  sun  ;  "  not  in  the  least  supposing 
or  intending  any  symbolism  either  in  the  coat,  or  the  dripping 
water,  or  the  morning  sunshine  ;  but  merely  and  straitly 
striving  to  put  the  facts  before  the  reader's  eyes  as  positively 
as  if  he  had  seen  the  thing  come  to  pass  on  Brighton  beach, 
and  an  English  fisherman  dash  through  the  surf  of  it  to  the 
feet  of  his  captain, — once  dead,  and  now  with  the  morning 
brightness  on  his  face. 

And  you  will  observe  farther,  that  this  way  of  thinking 
about  a  thing  compels,  with  a  painter,  also  a  certain  way  of 
painting  it.  I  do  not  mean  a  necessarily  close  or  minute  way, 
but  a  necessarily  complete,  substantial,  and  emphatic  one. 
The  thing  may  be  expressed  with  a  few  fierce  dashes  of  the 
pencil ;  but  it  will  be  wholly  and  bodily  there  ;  it  may  be  in 
the  broadest  and  simplest  terms,  but  nothing  will  be  hazy  or 
hidden,  nothing  clouded  round,  or  melted  away  :  and  all  that 
is  told  will  be  as  explanatory  and  lucid  as  may  be — as  of  a 
thing  examined  in  daylight,  not  dreamt  of  in  moonlight. 

I  must  delay  you  a  little,  though  perhaps  tiresomely,  to 
make  myself  well  understood  on  this  point ;  for  the  first  cele- 
brated pictures  of  the  pre-Eaphaelite  school  having  been  ex- 
tremely minute  in  finish,  you  might  easily  take  minuteness  for 
a  specialty  of  the  style. — but  it  is  not  so  in  the  least.  Minute- 
ness I  do  somewhat  claim,  for  a  quality  insisted  upon  by 
myself,  and  required  in  the  work  of  my  own  pupils  ;  it  is — at 
least  in  landscape — Turnerian  and  Ruskinian — not  pre-Ra- 
phaelite  at  all : — the  pre-Raphaelism  common  to  us  all  is  in 
the  frankness  and  honesty  of  the  touch,  not  in  its  dimensions. 

I  think  I  may,  once  for  all,  explain  this  to  you,  and  con- 
vince you  of  it,  by  asking  you,  when  you  next  go  up  to  Lon- 
don, to  look  at  a  sketch  by  Vandyke  in  the  National  Gallery, 
No.  680,  purporting  to  represent  this  very  scene  I  have  been 
speaking  of, — the  miraculous  draught  of  fishes.  It  is  one  of 
the  too  numerous  browm  sketches  in  the  manner  of  the  Flem- 
ish School,  which  seem  to  me  always  rather  clone  for  the  sake 
of  wiping  the  brush  clean  than  of  painting  anything.  There 
is  no  colour  in  it,  and  no  light  and  shade  ; — but  a  certain 


MYTHIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


273 


quantity  of  bitumen  is  rubbed  about  so  as  to  slip  more  or  less 
greasily  into  the  shape  of  figures  ;  and  one  of  St.  John's  (or 
St.  James's)  legs  is  suddenly  terminated  by  a  wriggle  of  white 
across  it,  to  signify  that  he  is  standing  in  the  sea.  Now  that 
was  the  kind  of  work  of  the  Dutch  School,  which  I  spent  so 
many  pages  in  vituperating  throughout  the  first  volume  of 
'Modern  Painters' — pages,  seemingly,  vain  to  this  day;  for 
still,  the  brown  daubs  are  hung  in  the  best  rooms  of  the  Na- 
tional Gallery,  and  the  loveliest  Turner  drawings  are  nailed 
to  the  wall  of  its  cellar, — and  might  as  well  be  buried  at  Pom- 
peii for  any  use  they  are  to  the  British  public  ; — but,  vain  or 
effectless  as  the  said  chapters  may  be,  they  are  altogether  true 
in  that  firm  statement,  that  these  brown  flourishes  of  the 
Dutch  brush  are  by  men  who  lived,  virtually,  the  gentle,  at 
court, — the  simple,  in  the  pothouse  ;  and  could  indeed  paint 
according  to  their  habitation,  a  nobleman  or  a  boor,  but  were 
not  only  incapable  of  conceiving,  but  wholly  unwishful  to  con- 
ceive, anything,  natural  or  supernatural,  beyond  the  precincts 
of  the  Presence  and  the  tavern.  So  that  they  especially  failed 
in  giving  the  life  and  beauty  of  little  things  in  lower  nature  ; 
and  if,  by  good  hap,  they  may  sometimes  more  or  less  succeed 
in  painting  St.  Peter  the  Fisher's  face,  never  by  any  chance 
realize  for  you  the  green  wave  dashing  over  his  feet. 

Now,  therefore,  understand  of  the  opposite  so  called  *  Pre- 
Raphaelite/  and,  much  more,  pre-Rubensite,  society,  that  its 
primary  virtue  is  the  trying  to  conceive  things  as  they  are, 
and  thinking  and  feeling  them  quite  out : — believing  joyfully 
if  we  may,  doubting  bravely,  if  we  must, — but  never  mystify- 
ing, or  shrinking  from,  or  choosing  for  argument's  sake,  this 
or  that  fact ;  but  giving  every  fact  its  own  full  power,  and 
every  incident  and  accessory  its  own  true  place, — so  that,  still 
keeping  to  our  illustrations  from  Brighton  or  Yarmouth 
beach,  in  that  most  noble  picture  by  Millais  which  probably 
most  of  you  saw  last  autumn  in  London,  the  c  Caller  Herrin'/ 
— picture  which,  as  a  piece  of  art,  I  should  myself  put  highest 
of  all  yet  produced  by  the  pre-Raphaelite  school  : — in  that 
most  noble  picture,  I  say,  the  herrings  were  painted  just  as 
well  as  the  girl,  and  the  master  was  not  the  least  afraid  that, 


274 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


for  all  he  could  do  to  them,  you  would  look  at  the  herrings 
first. 

Now  then,  I  think  I  have  got  the  manner  of  pre-Kaphaelite 
*  Realization  '  —  '  Verification '  —  '  Materialization  ' — or  what- 
ever else  you  choose  to  call  it,  positively  enough  asserted  and 
defined  :  and  hence  you  will  see  that  it  follows,  as  a  necessary 
consequence,  that  pre-Raphaelite  subjects  must  usually  be  of 
real  persons  in  a  solid  world — not  of  personifications  in  a 
vaporescent  one. 

The  persons  may  be  spiritual,  but  they  are  individual, — 
St.  George,  himself,  not  the  vague  idea  of  Fortitude ;  St. 
Cecily  herself,  not  the  mere  power  of  music.  And,  although 
spiritual,  there  is  no  attempt  whatever  made  by  this  school  to 
indicate  their  immortal  nature  by  any  evanescence  or  obscur- 
ity of  aspect.  All  transparent  ghosts  and  unoutlined  spectra 
are  the  work  of  failing  imagination, — rest  you  sure  of  that. 
Botticelli  indeed  paints  the  Favonian  breeze  transparent,  but 
never  the  angel  Gabriel ;  and  in  the  picture  I  was  telling  you 
of  in  last  lecture, — if  there  be  a  fault  which  may  jar  for  a 
moment  on  your  feelings  when  you  first  see  it,  I  am  afraid  it 
will  be  that  the  souls  of  the  Innocents  are  a  little  too  chubby, 
and  one  or  two  of  them,  I  should  say,  just  a  dimple  too  fat. 

And  here  I  must  branch  for  a  moment  from  the  direct 
course  of  my  subject,  to  answer  another  question  which  may 
by  this  time  have  occurred  to  some  of  my  hearers,  how,  if 
this  school  be  so  obstinately  realistic,  it  can  also  be  character- 
ized as  romantic. 

When  we  have  concluded  our  review  of  the  present  state  of 
English  art,  we  will  collect  the  general  evidence  of  its  ro- 
mance ;  meantime,  I  will  say  only  this  much,  for  you  to  think 
out  at  your  leisure,  that  romance  does  not  consist  in  the  man- 
ner of  representing  or  relating  things,  but  in  the  kind  of  pas- 
sions appealed  to  by  the  things  related.  The  three  romantic 
passions  are  those  by  which  you  are  told,  in  Wordsworth's 
aphoristic  line,  that  the  life  of  the  soul  is  fed. 

' 1  We  live  by  Admiration,  Hope,  and  Love."  Admiration, 
meaning  primarily  all  the  forms  of  Hero  Worship,  and  second- 
arily, the  kind  of  feeling  towards  the  beauty  of  nature,  which 


MYTHIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


I  have  attempted  too  feebly  to  analyze  in  the  second  volume 
of  c  Modern  Painters  ' ; — Hope,  meaning  primarily  the  habit 
of  mind  in  which  we  take  present  pain  for  the  sake  of  future 
pleasure,  and  expanding  into  the  hope  of  another  world  ; — 
and  Love,  meaning  of  course  whatever  is  happiest  or  noblest 
in  the  life  either  of  that  world  or  this. 

Indicating,  thus  briefly,  what,  though  not  always  consciously, 
we  mean  by  Romance,  I  proceed  with  our  present  subject  of 
enquiry,  from  which  I  branched  at  the  point  where  it  had  been 
observed  that  the  realistic  school  could  only  develop  its  com- 
plete force  in  representing  persons,  and  could  not  happily  rest 
in  personifications.  Nevertheless,  we  find  one  of  the  artists 
whose  close  friendship  with  Rossetti,  and  fellowship  with 
other  members  of  the  pre-Eaphaelite  brotherhood,  have  more 
or  less  identified  his  work  with  theirs,  yet  differing  from  them 
all  diametrically  in  this,  that  his  essential  gift  and  habit  of 
thought  is  in  personification,  and  that, — for  sharp  and  brief 
instance,  had  both  Rossetti  and  he  been  set  to  illustrate  the 
first  chapter  of  Genesis,  Rossetti  would  have  painted  either 
Adam  or  Eve — but  Edward  Burne- Jones,  a  Day  of  Creation. 

And  in  this  gift,  he  becomes  a  painter,  neither  of  Divine 
History,  nor  of  Divine  Natural  History,  but  of  Mythology, 
accepted  as  such,  and  understood  by  its  symbolic  figures  to 
represent  only  general  truths,  or  abstract  ideas. 

And  here  I  must  at  once  pray  you,  as  I  have  prayed  you  to 
remove  all  associations  of  falsehood  from  the  word  romance, 
so  also  to  clear  them  out  of  your  faith,  when  you  begin  the 
study  of  mythology.  Never  confuse  a  Myth  with  a  Lie, — 
nay,  you  must  even  be  cautious  how  far  you  even  permit  it  to 
be  called  a  fable.  Take  the  frequentest  and  simplest  of  myths 
for  instance — that  of  Fortune  and  her  wheel.  Enid  does  not 
herself  conceive,  or  in  the  least  intend  the  hearers  of  her  song 
to  conceive,  that  there  stands  anywhere  in  the  universe  a  real 
woman,  turning  an  adamantine  wheel  whose  revolutions  have 
power  over  human  destiny.  She  means  only  to  assert,  unde? 
that  image,  more  clearly  the  law  of  Heaven's  continual  deal- 
ing with  man, — "He  hath  put  down  the  mighty  from  their 
seat,  and  hath  exalted  the  humble  and  meek." 


276 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


But  in  the  imagined  symbol,  or  rather  let  me  say,  the  visit- 
ing and  visible  dream,  of  this  law,  other  ideas  variously  con- 
ducive to  its  clearness  are  gathered  ; — those  of  gradual  and 
irresistible  motion  of  rise  and  fall, — the  tide  of  Fortune,  as 
distinguished  from  instant  change  of  catastrophe  ;— those  of 
the  connection  of  the  fates  of  men  with  each  other,  the  yield- 
ing and  occupation  of  high  place,  the  alternately  appointed 
and  inevitable  humiliation  : — and  the  fastening,  in  the  sight 
of  the  Euler  of  Destiny,  of  all  to  the  mighty  axle  which 
moves  only  as  the  axle  of  the  world.  These  things  are  told 
or  hinted  to  you,  in  the  mythic  picture,  not  with  the  imperti- 
nence and  the  narrowness  of  words,  nor  in  any  order  com- 
pelling a  monotonous  succession  of  thought, — but  each  as  you 
choose  or  chance  to  read  it,  to  be  rested  in  or  proceeded  with, 
as  you  will. 

Here  then  is  the  ground  on  which  the  Dramatic,  or  per- 
sonal, and  Mythic — or  personifying,  schools  of  our  young 
painters,  whether  we  find  for  them  a  general  name  or  not, 
must  be  thought  of  as  absolutely  one — that,  as  the  dramatic 
painters  seek  to  show  you  the  substantial  truth  of  persons,  so 
the  mythic  school  seeks  to  teach  you  the  spiritual  truth  of 
myths. 

Truth  is  the  vital  power  of  the  entire  school,  Truth  its  ar- 
mour— Truth  its  war- word  ;  and  the  grotesque  and  wild  forms 
of  imagination  which,  at  first  sight,  seem  to  be  the  reaction 
of  a  desperate  fancy,  and  a  terrified  faith,  against  the  incisive 
scepticism  of  recent  science,  so  far  from  being  so,  are  a  part 
of  that  science  itself :  they  are  the  results  of  infinitely  more 
accurate  scholarship,  of  infinitely  more  detective  examination, 
of  infinitely  more  just  and  scrupulous  integrity  of  thought, 
than  was  possible  to  any  artist  during  the  two  preceding  cent- 
uries ;  and  exactly  as  the  eager  and  sympathetic  passion  of 
the  dramatic  designer  now  assures  you  of  the  way  in  which 
an  event  happened,  so  the  scholarly  and  sympathetic  thought 
of  the  mythic  designer  now  assures  you  of  the  meaning,  in 
what  a  fable  said. 

Much  attention  has  lately  been  paid  by  archaeologists  to 
what  they  are  pleased  to  call  the  development  of  myths  ;  but, 


MYTHIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING.  211 


for  the  most  part,  with  these  two  erroneous  ideas  to  begin 
with — the  first,  that  mythology  is  a  temporary  form  of  human 
folly,  from  which  they  are  about  in  their  own  perfect  wisdom 
to  achieve  our  final  deliverance  ;  the  second,  that  you  may 
conclusively  ascertain  the  nature  of  these  much-to-be-lamented 
misapprehensions,  by  the  types  which  early  art  presents  of 
them  !  You  will  find  in  the  first  section  of  my  '  Queen  of  the 
Air/  contradiction  enough  of  the  first  supercilious  theory ; — 
though  not  with  enough  clearness  the  counter  statement,  that 
the  thoughts  of  all  the  greatest  and  wisest  men  hitherto,  since 
the  world  was  made,  have  been  expressed  through  mythology. 

You  may  find  a  piece  of  most  convincing  evidence  on  this 
point  by  noticing  that  whenever,  by  Plato,  you  are  extricated 
from  the  play  of  logic,  and  from  the  debate  of  points  clubita- 
ble  or  trivial ;  and  are  to  be  told  somewhat  of  his  inner 
thought,  and  highest  moral  conviction, — that  instant  yon  are 
cast  free  in  the  elements  of  jahantasy,  and  delighted  by  a 
beautiful  myth.  And  I  believe  that  every  master  here  who  is 
interested,  not  merely  in  the  history,  but  in  the  substance,  of 
moral  philosophy,  will  confirm  me  in  saying  that  the  direct 
maxims  of  the  greatest  sages  of  Greece,  do  not,  in  the  sum  of 
them,  contain  a  code  of  ethics  either  so  pure,  or  so  practical, 
as  that  which  may  be  gathered  by  the  attentive  interpretation 
of  the  myths  of  Pindar  and  Aristophanes. 

Of  the  folly  of  the  second  notion  above-named,  held  by  the 
majority  of  our  students  of  £  development '  in  fable, — that  they 
can  estimate  the  dignity  of  ideas  by  the  symbols  used  for  them, 
in  early  art ;  and  trace  the  succession  of  thought  in  the  human 
mind  by  the  tradition  of  ornament  in  its  manufactures,  I  have 
no  time  to-day  to  give  any  farther  illustration  than  that  long 
since  instanced  to  you,  the  difference  between  the  ideas  con- 
veyed by  Homer's  description  of  the  shield  of  Achilles,  (much 
more,  Hesiod's  of  that  of  Herakles,)  and  the  impression  which 
we  should  receive  from  any  actually  contemporary  Greek  art. 
You  may  with  confidence  receive  the  restoration  of  the  Ho- 
meric shield,  given  by  Mr.  A.  Murray  in  his  history  of  Greek 
sculpture,  as  authoritatively  representing  the  utmost  graphic 
skill  which  could  at  the  time  have  been  employed  in  the  deco- 


278 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


ration  of  a  hero's  armour.  But  the  poet  describes  the  rude 
imagery  as  producing  the  effect  of  reality,  and  might  praise 
in  the  same  words  the  sculpture  of  Donatello  or  Ghiberti. 
And  you  may  rest  entirely  satisfied  that  when  the  surround- 
ing realities  are  beautiful,  the  imaginations,  in  all  distin- 
guished human  intellect,  are  beautiful  also,  and  that  the  forms 
of  gods  and  heroes  were  entirely  noble  in  dream,  and  in  con- 
templation, long  before  the  clay  became  ductile  to  the  hand 
of  the  potter,  or  the  likeness  of  a  living  body  possible  in  ivory 
and  gold. 

And  herein  you  see  with  what  a  deeply  interesting  function 
the  modern  painter  of  mythology  is  invested.  He  is  to  place, 
at  the  service  of  former  imagination,  the  art  which  it  had  not 
— and  to  realize  for  us,  with  a  truth  then  impossible,  the  vis- 
ions described  by  the  wisest  of  men  as  embodying  their  most 
pious  thoughts  and  their  most  exalted  doctrines :  not  indeed 
attempting  with  any  literal  exactitude  to  follow  the  words  of 
the  visionary,  for  no  man  can  enter  literally  into  the  mind  of 
another,  neither  can  any  great  designer  refuse  to  obey  the 
suggestions  of  his  own  :  but  only  bringing  the  resources  of 
accomplished  art  to  unveil  the  hidden  splendour  of  old  imagi- 
nation ;  and  showing  us  that  the  forms  of  gods  and  angels 
which  appeared  in  fancy  to  the  prophets  and  saints  of  an- 
tiquity, were  indeed  more  natural  and  beautiful  than  the  black 
and  red  shadows  on  a  Greek  vase,  or  the  dogmatic  outlines  of 
a  Byzantine  frescoc 

It  should  be  a  ground  of  just  pride  to  all  of  us  here  in  Ox- 
ford, that  out  of  this  University  came  the  painter  whose  inde- 
fatigable scholarship  and  exhaustless  fancy  have  together  fitted 
him  for  this  task,  in  a  degree  far  distinguishing  him  above  all 
contemporary  European  designers.  It  is  impossible  for  the 
general  public  to  estimate  the  quantity  of  careful  and  investi- 
gatory reading,  and  the  fine  tact  of  literary  discrimination, 
which  are  signified  by  the  command  now  possessed  by  Mr. 
Burne- Jones  over  the  entire  range  both  of  Northern  and  Greek 
mythology,  or  the  tenderness  at  once,  and  largeness,  of  sym- 
pathy which  have  enabled  him  to  harmonize  these  with  the 
loveliest  traditions  of  Christian  legend.    Hitherto,  there  has 


MYTHIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


279 


been  adversity  between  the  schools  of  classic  and  Christian 
art,  only  in  part  conquered  by  the  most  liberal-minded  of  ar- 
tists and  poets :  Nicholas  of  Pisa  accepts  indeed  the  technical 
aid  of  antiquity,  but  with  much  loss  to  his  Christian  sentiment  ; 
Dante  uses  the  imagery  of  iEschylus  for  the  more  terrible 
picturing  of  the  Hell  to  which,  in  common  with  the  theologians 
of  his  age,  he  condemned  his  instructor ;  but  while  Minos  and 
the  Furies  are  represented  by  him  as  still  existent  in  Hades, 
there  is  no  place  in  Paradise  for  Diana  or  Athena.  Contrari- 
wise, the  later  revival  of  the  legends  of  antiquity  meant  scorn 
of  those  of  Christendom.  It  is  but  fifty  years  ago  that  the 
value  of  the  latter  was  again  perceived  and  represented  to  us 
by  Lord  Lindsay  :  and  it  is  only  within  the  time  which  may 
be  looked  back  to  by  the  greater  number  even  of  my  younger 
auditors,  that  the  transition  of  Athenian  mythology,  through 
Byzantine,  into  Christian,  has  been  first  felt,  and  then  traced 
and  proved,  by  the  penetrative  scholarship  of  the  men  belong- 
ing to  this  pre-Kaphaelite  school,  chiefly  Mr.  Burne-Jones  and 
Mr.  William  Morris, — noble  collaborateurs,  of  whom,  may  I  be 
forgiven,  in  passing,  for  betraying  to  you  a  pretty  little  sacred- 
ness  of  their  private  life — that  they  solemnly  and  jovially  have 
breakfasted  together  every  Sunday,  for  many  and  many  a  year. 

Thus  far,  then,  I  am  able  with  security  to  allege  to  you  the 
peculiar  function  of  this  greatly  gifted  and  highly  trained  Eng- 
lish painter  ;  and  with  security  also,  the  function  of  any  no- 
ble myth,  in  the  teaching,  even  of  this  practical  and  positive 
British  race.  But  now,  when  for  purposes  of  direct  criticism 
I  proceed  to  ask  farther  in  what  manner  or  with  what  precis- 
ion of  art  any  given  myth  should  be  presented — instantly  we 
find  ourselves  involved  in  a  group  of  questions  and  difficulties 
which  I  feel  to  be  quite  beyond  the  proper  sphere  of  this  Pro- 
fessorship. So  long  as  we  have  only  to  deal  with  living  creat- 
ures, or  solid  substances,  I  am  able  to  tell  you — and  to  show 
— that  they  are  to  be  painted  under  certain  optical  laws  which 
prevail  in  our  present  atmosphere  ;  and  with  due  respect  to 
laws  of  gravity  and  movement  which  cannot  be  evaded  in  our 
terrestrial  constitution.  But  when  we  have  only  an  idea  to 
paint,  or  a  symbol,  I  do  not  feel  authorized  to  insist  any 


280 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


longer  upon  these  vulgar  appearances,  or  mortal  and  temporal 
limitations.  I  cannot  arrogantly  or  demonstratively  define  to 
you  how  the  light  should  fall  on  the  two  sides  of  the  nose  of 
a  Day  of  Creation  ;  nor  obstinately  demand  botanical  accuracy 
in  the  graining  of  the  wood  employed  for  the  spokes  of  a 
Wheel  of  Fortune.  Indeed,  so  far  from  feeling  justified  in 
any  such  vexatious  and  vulgar  requirements,  I  am  under  an 
instinctive  impression  that  some  kind  of  strangeness  or  quaint- 
ness,  or  even  violation  of  probability,  would  be  not  merely 
admissible,  but  even  desirable,  in  the  delineation  of  a  figure 
intended  neither  to  represent  a  body,  nor  a  spirit,  neither  an 
animal,  nor  a  vegetable,  but  only  •  an  idea,  or  an  aphorism. 
Let  me,  however,  before  venturing  one  step  forward  amidst 
the  insecure  snows  and  cloudy  wreaths  of  the  Imagination,  se- 
cure your  confidence  in  my  guidance,  so  far  as  I  may  gain  it 
by  the  assertion  of  one  general  rule  of  proper  safeguard  ;  that 
no  mystery  or  majesty  of  intention  can  be  alleged  by  a  painter 
to  justify  him  in  careless  or  erroneous  drawing  of  any  object 
— so  far  as  he  chooses  to  represent  it  at  all.  The  more  license 
we  grant  to  the  audacity  of  his  conception,  the  more  careful 
he  should  be  to  give  us  no  causeless  ground  of  complaint  of 
offence  :  while,  in  the  degree  of  importance  and  didactic  value 
which  he  attaches  to  his  parable,  will  be  the  strictness  of  his 
duty  to  allow  no  faults,  by  any  care  avoidable,  to  disturb  the 
spectator's  attention,  or  provoke  his  criticism. 

I  cannot  but  to  this  day  remember,  partly  with  amusement, 
partly  in  vexed  humiliation,  the  simplicity  with  which  I 
brought  out3  one  evening  when  the  sculptor  Marochetti  was 
dining  with  us  at  Denmark  Hill,  some  of  the  then  but  little 
known  drawings  of  Eossetti,  for  his  instruction  in  the  beauties 
of  pre-Kaphaelism. 

You  may  see  with  the  slightest  glance  at  the  statue  of  Coeur 
de  Lion,  (the  only  really  interesting  piece  of  historical  sculpt- 
ure we  have  hitherto  given  to  our  City  populace),  that  Maro- 
chetti was  not  only  trained  to  perfectness  of  knowledge  and 
perception  in  the  structure  of  the  human  body,  but  had  also 
peculiar  delight  in  the  harmonies  of  line  which  express  its 
easy  and  powerful  motion.    Knowing  a  little  more  both  of 


MYTHIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


281 


men  and  things  now,  than  I  did  on  the  evening  in  question, 
I  too  clearly  apprehend  that  the  violently  variegated  segments 
and  angular  anatomies  of  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  grave  of  King 
Arthur  must  have  produced  on  the  bronze-minded  sculptor 
simply  the  effect  of  a  Knave  of  Clubs  and  Queen  of  Diamonds  ; 
and  that  the  Italian  master,  in  his  polite  confession  of  inability 
to  recognize  the  virtues  of  Rossetti,  cannot  but  have  greatly 
suspected  the  sincerity  of  his  entertainer,  in  the  profession  of 
sympathy  with  his  own. 

No  faults,  then,  that  we  can  help, — this  we  lay  down  for  cer- 
tain law  to  start  with  ;  therefore,  especially,  no  ignoble  faults, 
of  mere  measurement,  proportion,  perspective,  and  the  like, 
may  be  allowed  to  art,  which  is  by  claim  learned  and  magis- 
tral ;  therefore  bound  to  be,  in  terms,  grammatical.  And  yet 
we  are  not  only  to  allow,  but  even  to  accept  gratefully,  any 
kind  of  strangeness  and  deliberate  difference  from  merely  real- 
istic painting,  which  may  raise  the  work,  not  only  above  vul- 
garity, but  above  incredulity.  For  it  is  often  by  realizing  it 
most  positively  that  we  shall  render  it  least  credible. 

For  instance,  in  the  prettiest  design  of  the  series,  by  Riehter, 
illustrating  the  Lord's  Prayer,  which  I  asked  you  in  my  last  lec- 
ture to  use  for  household  lessons  ; — that  of  the  mother  giving 
her  young  children  their  dinner  in  the  field  which  their  father 
is  sowing, — one  of  the  pieces  of  the  enclosing  arabesque  rep- 
resents a  little  winged  cherub  emergent  from  a  flower,  hold- 
ing out  a  pitcher  to  a  bee,  who  stoops  to  drink.  The  species 
of  bee  is  not  scientifically  determinable  ;  the  wings  of  the  tiny 
servitor  terminate  rather  in  petals  than  plumes  ;  and  the  un- 
pretentious jug  suggests  nothing  of  the  clay  of  Dresden,  Sevres, 
or  Chelsea.  You  would  not,  I  think,  find  your  children  under- 
stand the  lesson  in  divinity  better,  or  believe  it  more  frankly, 
if  the  hymenopterous  insect  were  painted  so  accurately  that, 
(to  use  the  old  method  of  eulogium  on  painting,)  you  could 
hear  it  buzz;  and  the  cherub  completed  into  the  living  likeness 
of  a  little  boy  with  blue  eyes  and  red  cheeks,  but  of  the  size 
of  a  humming-bird.  In  this  and  in  myriads  of  similar  cases, 
it  is  possible  to  imagine  from  an  outline  what  a  finished 
picture  would  only  provoke  us  to  deny  in  contempt. 


282  THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


Again,  in  my  opening  lecture  on  Light  and  Shade,  the  sixth 
of  those  given  in  the  year  1870,  I  traced  in  some  complete- 
ness the  range  of  idea  which  a  Greek  vase-painter  was  in  the 
habit  of  conveying  by  the  mere  opposition  of  dark  and  light 
in  the  figures  and  background,  with  the  occasional  use  of  a 
modifying  purple.  It  has  always  been  matter  of  surprise  to 
me  that  the  Greeks  rested  in  colours  so  severe,  and  I  have  in 
several  places  formerly  ventured  to  state  my  conviction  that 
their  sense  of  colour  was  inferior  to  that  of  other  races. 
Nevertheless,  you  will  find  that  the  conceptions  of  moral  and 
physical  truth  which  they  were  able  with  these  narrow  means 
to  convey,  are  far  loftier  than  the  utmost  that  can  be  gathered 
from  the  iridescent  delicacy  of  Chinese  design,  or  the  literally 
imitative  dexterities  of  Japan. 

Now,  in  both  these  methods,  Mr.  Burne-Jones  has  devel- 
oped their  applicable  powers  to  their  highest  extent.  His 
outline  is  the  purest  and  quietest  that  is  possible  to  the  pen- 
cil ;  nearly  all  other  masters  accentuate  falsely,  or  in  some 
places,  as  Richter,  add  shadows  which  are  more  or  less  con- 
ventional. But  an  outline  by  Burne-Jones  is  as  pure  as  the 
lines  of  engraving  on  an  Etruscan  mirror ;  and  I  placed  the 
series  of  drawings  from  the  story  of  Psyche  in  your  school  as 
faultlessly  exemplary  in  this  kind.  Whether  pleasing  or  dis- 
pleasing to  your  taste,  they  are  entirely  masterful ;  and  it  is 
only  by  trying  to  copy  these  or  other  such  outlines,  that  you 
will  fully  feel  the  grandeur  of  action  in  the  moving  hand, 
tranquil  and  swift  as  a  hawk's  flight,  and  never  allowing  a  vul- 
gar tremor,  or  a  momentary  impulse,  to  impair  its  precision, 
or  disturb  its  serenity. 

Again,  though  Mr.  Jones  has  a  sense  of  colour  in  its  kind, 
perfect,  he  is  essentially  a  chiaroscurist.  Diametrically  op- 
posed to  Kossetti,  who  could  conceive  in  color  only,  he  pre- 
fers subjects  which  can  be  divested  of  superficial  attractive- 
ness, appeal  first  to  the  intellect  and  the  heart ;  and  convey 
their  lesson  either  through  intricacies  of  delicate  line,  or  in 
the  dimness  or  coruscation  of  ominous  light. 

The  heads  of  Medea  and  of  Danae,  which  I  placed  in  your 
schools  long  ago,  are  representative  of  all  that  you  need  aim 


MYTHIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


283 


at  in  chiaroscuro  ;  and  lately  a  third  type  of  his  best  work, 
in  subdued  pencil  light  and  shade,  has  been  placed  within 
your  reach  in  Dr.  Acland's  drawing-room, — the  portrait  of 
Miss  Gladstone,  in  which  you  will  see  the  painter's  best  pow- 
ers stimulated  to  their  utmost,  and  reaching  a  serene  depth 
of  expression  unattainable  by  photography,  and  nearly  certain 
to  be  lost  in  finished  painting. 

For  there  is  this  perpetually  increasing  difficulty  towards 
the  completion  of  any  work,  that  the  added  forces  of  colour 
destroy  the  value  of  the  pale  and  subtle  tints  or  shades  which 
give  the  nobleness  to  expression  ;  so  that  the  most  powerful 
masters  in  oil  painting  rarely  aim  at  expression,  but  only  at 
general  character — and  I  believe  the  great  artist  whose  name 
I  have  associated  with  that  of  Burne-Jones  as  representing 
the  mythic  schools,  Mr.  G.  F.  Watts,  has  been  partly  re- 
strained, and  partly  oppressed  by  the  very  earnestness  and 
extent  of  the  study  through  which  he  has  sought  to  make  his 
work  on  all  sides  perfect.  His  constant  reference  to  the  high- 
est examples  of  Greek  art  in  form,  and  his  sensitiveness  to 
the  qualities  at  once  of  tenderness  and  breadth  in  pencil  and 
chalk  drawing,  have  virtually  ranked  him  among  the  painters 
of  the  great  Athenian  days,  of  whom,  in  the  sixth  book  of 
the  Laws,  Plato  wrote  : — "You  know  how  the  anciently  accu- 
rate toil  of  a  painter  seems  never  to  reach  a  term  that  satis- 
fies him  ;  but  he  must  either  farther  touch,  or  soften  the 
touches  laid  already,  and  never  seems  to  reach  a  point  where 
he  has  not  yet  some  power  to  do  more,  so  as  to  make  the 
things  he  has  drawn  more  beautiful,  and  more  apparent  KaAXiw 

Of  course  within  the  limits  of  this  lecture  there  is  no  possi- 
bility of  entering  on  the  description  of  separate  pictures  ;  but 
I  trust  it  may  be  hereafter  my  privilege  to  carry  you  back  to 
the  beginning  of  English  historical  art,  when  Mr.  Watts  first 
showed  victorious  powers  of  design  in  the  competition  for  the 
frescoes  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament — and  thence  to  trace  for 
you,  in  some  completeness,  the  code  of  mythic  and  heroic 
story  which  these  two  artists,  Mr.  Watts  and  Mr.  Burne-Jones, 
have  gathered,  and  in  the  most  deep  sense  written,  for  us. 


284 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


To-day  I  have  only  brought  with  me  a  few  designs  by  Mr. 
Burne- Jones,  of  a  kind  which  may  be  to  some  extent  well 
represented  in  photograph,  and  to  which  I  shall  have  occa- 
sion to  refer  in  subsequent  lectures.  They  are  not  to  be 
copied,  but  delighted  in,  by  those  of  you  who  care  for  them, 
— and,  under  Mr.  Fisher's  care,  I  shall  recommend  them  to  be 
kept  out  of  the  way  of  those  who  do  not  They  include  the 
Days  of  Creation  ;  three  outlines  from  Solomon's  Song ;  two 
from  the  Romance  of  the  Rose  ;  the  great  one  of  Athena  in- 
spiring Humanity  ;  and  the  story  of  St.  George  and  Sabra. 
They  will  be  placed  in  a  cabinet  in  the  upper  gallery,  together 
with  the  new  series  of  Turner  sketches,  and  will  by  no  means 
be  intruded  on  your  attention,  but  made  easily  accessible  to 
your  wish. 

To  justify  this  monastic  treatment  of  them,  I  must  say  a 
few  words,  in  conclusion,  of  the  dislike  which  these  designs, 
in  common  with  those  of  Carpaccio,  excite  in  the  minds 
of  most  English  people  of  a  practical  turn.  A  few  words 
only,  both  because  this  lecture  is  already  long  enough,  and 
besides,  because  the  point  in  question  is  an  extremely  curious 
one,  and  by  no  means  to  be  rightly  given  account  of  in  a  con- 
cluding sentence.  The  point  is,  that  in  the  case  of  ordinary 
painters,  however  peculiar  their  manner,  people  either  like 
them,  or  pass  them  by  with  a  merciful  contempt  or  condem- 
nation, calling  them  stupid,  or  weak,  or  foolish,  but  without 
any  expression  of  real  disgust  or  dislike.  But  in  the  case  of 
painters  of  the  mythic  schools,  people  either  greatly  like 
them,  or  they  dislike  in  a  sort  of  frightened  and  angry  way, 
as  if  they  had  been  personally  aggrieved.  And  the  persons 
who  feel  this  antipathy  most  strongly,  are  often  extremely 
sensible  and  good,  and  of  the  kind  one  is  extremely  unwilling 
to  offend  ;  but  either  they  are  not  fond  of  art  at  all,  or  else 
they  admire,  naturally,  pictures  from  real  life  only,  such  as, 
to  name  an  extremely  characteristic  example,  those  of  the  (I 
believe,  Bavarian)  painter  Vautier,  of  whom  I  shall  have 
much,  in  another  place,  to  say  in  praise,  but  of  whom,  with 
the  total  school  he  leads,  I  must  peremptorily  assure  my 
hearers  that  their  manner  of  painting  is  merely  part  of  our 


CLASSIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


285 


general  modern  system  of  scientific  illustration  aided  by 
photography,  and  has  no  claim  to  rank  with  works  of  creative 
art  at  all ;  and  farther,  that  it  is  essentially  illiterate,  and  can 
teach  you  nothing  but  what  you  can  easily  see  without  the 
painter's  trouble.  Here  is,  for  instance,  a  very  charming  little 
picture  of  a  school  girl  going  to  her  class,  and  telling  her  doll 
to  be  good  till  she  comes  back  ;  you  like  it,  and  ought  to  like 
it,  because  you  see  the  same  kind  of  incident  in  your  own 
children  every  day  ;  but  I  should  say,  on  the  whole,  you  had 
better  look  at  the  real  children  than  the  picture.  Whereas, 
you  can't  every  day  at  home  see  the  goddess  Athena  telling 
you  yourselves  to  be  good, — and  perhaps  you  wouldn't  alto- 
gether like  to,  if  you  could. 

Without  venturing  on  the  rudeness  of  hinting  that  any 
such  feeling  underlies  the  English  dislike  for  didactic  art,  I 
will  pray  you  at  once  to  check  the  habit  of  carelessly  blaming 
the  things  that  repel  you  in  early  or  existing  religious  artists, 
and  to  observe,  for  the  sum  of  what  is  to  be  noted  respecting 
the  four  of  whom  I  have  thus  far  ventured  to  speak — Mr. 
Eossetti,  Mr.  Hunt,  Mr.  Jones,  and  Mr.  Watts,  that  they  are  in 
the  most  solemn  sense,  Hero-worshippers  ;  and  that,  whatever 
may  be  their  faults  or  shortcomings,  their  aim  has  always 
been  the  brightest  and  the  noblest  possible.  The  more  you 
can  admire  them,  and  the  longer  you  read,  the  more  your 
minds  and  hearts  will  be  filled  with  the  best  knowledge  acces- 
sible in  history,  and  the  loftiest  associations  conveyable  by  the 
passionate  and  reverent  skill,  of  which  I  have  told  you  in  the 
'Laws  of  Fesole,'  that  "All  great  Art  is  Praise." 


LECTURE  III. 

Classic  Schools  of  Painting. 

SIR  F.  LEIGHTON  AND  ALMA  TADEMA. 

I  had  originally  intended  this  lecture  to  be  merely  the  ex- 
position, with  direct  reference  to  painting  and  literature,  of 
the  single  line  of  Horace  which  sums  the  conditions  of  a 


286 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


gentleman's  education,  be  he  rich  or  poor,  learned  or  un- 
learned : 

44  Est  animus  tibi, — sunt  mores  et  lingua, — fidesque," 

6  animus '  being  that  part  of  him  in  which  he  differs  from  an 
ox  or  an  ape  ;  '  mores,'  the  difference  in  him  from  the  '  malig- 
num  vulgus';  'lingua/  eloquence,  the  power  of  expression; 
and  '  fides,'  fidelity,  to  the  Master,  or  Mistress,  or  Law,  that 
he  loves.  But  since  I  came  to  London  and  saw  the  exhibi- 
tions, I  have  thought  good  to  address  my  discourse  more 
pertinently  to  what  must  at  this  moment  chiefly  interest  you 
in  them.  And  I  must  at  once,  and  before  everything,  tell  you 
the  delight  given  me  by  the  quite  beautiful  work  in  portrait- 
ure, with  which  my  brother-professor  Eichmond  leads  and 
crowns  the  general  splendour  of  the  Grosvenor  Gallery.  I 
am  doubly  thankful  that  his  release  from  labour  in  Oxford 
has  enabled  him  to  develop  his  special  powers  so  nobly,  and 
that  my  own  return  grants  me  the  privilege  of  publicly  ex- 
pressing to  him  the  admiration  we  all  must  feel 

And  now  in  this  following  lecture,  you  must  please  under- 
stand at  once  that  I  use  the  word  '  classic,'  first  in  its  own 
sense  of  senatorial,  academic,  and  authoritative  ;  but,  as  a 
necessary  consequence  of  that  first  meaning,  also  in  the  sense, 
more  proper  to  our  immediate  subject,  of  Anti-Gothic  ;  an- 
tagonist, that  is  to  say,  to  the  temper  in  which  Gothic  archi- 
tecture was  built :  and  not  only  antagonist  to  that  form  of 
art,  but  contemptuous  of  it  ;  unforgiving  to  its  faults,  cold  to 
its  enthusiasms,  and  impatient  of  its  absurdities.  In  which 
contempt  the  classic  mind  is  certainly  illiberal ;  and  narrower 
than  the  mind  of  an  equitable  art  student  should  be  in  these 
enlightened  days  : — for  instance,  in  the  British  Museum,  it  is 
quite  right  that  the  British  public  should  see  the  Elgin 
marbles  to  the  best  advantage  ;  but  not  that  they  should  be 
unable  to  see  any  example  of  the  sculpture  of  Chartres  or 
Wells,  unless  they  go  to  the  miscellaneous  collection  of  Ken- 
sington, where  Gothic  saints  and  sinners  are  confounded  alike 
among  steam  threshing-machines  and  dynamite-proof  ships  of 


CLASSIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING.  287 


war  ;  or  to  the  Crystal  Palace,  where  they  are  mixed  up  with 
Rimmel's  perfumery. 

For  this  hostility,  in  our  present  English  schools,  between 
the  votaries  of  classic  and  Gothic  art,  there  is  no  ground  in 
past  history,  and  no  excuse  in  the  nature  of  those  arts  them- 
selves. Briefly,  to-day  I  would  sum  for  you  the  statement  of 
their  historical  continuity  which  you  will  find  expanded  and 
illustrated  in  my  former  lectures. 

Only  observe,  for  the  present,  you  must  please  put  Oriental 
Art  entirely  out  of  your  heads.  I  shall  allow  myself  no  allu- 
sion to  China,  Japan,  India,  Assyria,  or  Arabia :  though  this 
restraint  on  myself  will  be  all  the  more  difficult,  because,  only 
a  few  weeks  since,  I  had  a  delightful  audience  of  Sir  Frederick 
Leighton  beside  his  Arabian  fountain,  and  beneath  his  Alad- 
din's palace  glass.  Yet  I  shall  not  allude,  in  what  I  say  of  his 
designs,  to  any  points  in  which  they  may  perchance  have  been 
influenced  by  those  enchantments.  Similarly  there  were  some 
charming  Zobeides  and  Cleopatras  among  the  variegated  col- 
our fancies  of  Mr.  Alma  Tadema  in  the  last  Grosvenor  ;  but  I 
have  nothing  yet  to  say  of  them :  it  is  only  as  a  careful  and 
learned  interpreter  of  certain  phases  of  Greek  and  Roman  life, 
and  as  himself  a  most  accomplished  painter,  on  long  estab- 
lished principles,  that  I  name  him  as  representatively  '  classic.' 

The  summary,  therefore,  which  I  have  to  give  you  of  the 
course  of  Pagan  and  Gothic  Art  must  be  understood  as  kept 
wholly  on  this  side  of  the  Bosphorus,  and  recognizing  no  far- 
ther shore  beyond  the  Mediterranean.  Thus  fixing  our  ter- 
mini, you  find  from  the  earliest  times,  in  Greece  and  Italy,  a 
multitude  of  artists  gradually  perfecting  the  knowledge  and 
representation  of  the  human  body,  glorified  by  the  exercises 
of  war.  And  you  have,  north  of  Greece  and  Italy,  innumer- 
ably and  incorrigibly  savage  nations,  representing,  with  rude 
and  irregular  efforts,  on  huge  stones,  and  ice-borne  boulders, 
on  cave-bones  and  forest-stocks  and  logs,  with  any  manner  of 
innocent  tinting  or  scratching  possible  to  them,  sometimes 
beasts,  sometimes  hobgoblins — sometimes,  heaven  only  knows 
what ;  but  never  attaining  any  skill  in  figure-drawing,  until, 
whether  invading  or  invaded,  Greece  and  Italy  teach  them 


2S3 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


what  a  human  being  is  like  ;  and  with  that  help  they  dream 
and  blunder  on  through  the  centuries,  achieving  many  fantas- 
tic and  amusing  things,  more  especially  the  art  of  rhyming, 
whereby  they  usually  express  their  notions  of  things  far  better 
than  by  painting.  Nevertheless,  in  due  course  we  get  a  Hol- 
bein out  of  them  ;  and,  in  the  end,  for  best  product  hitherto, 
Sir  Joshua,  and  the  supremely  Gothic  Gainsborough,  whose 
last  words  we  may  take  for  a  beautiful  reconciliation  of  all 
schools  and  souls  who  have  done  their  work  to  the  best  of 
their  knowledge  and  conscience, — "  We  are  all  going  to  Hea- 
ven, and  Vandyke  is  of  the  company." 

"We  are  all  going  to  Heaven."  Either  that  is  true  of  men 
and  nations,  or  else  that  they  are  going  the  other  way ;  and 
the  question  of  questions  for  them  is — not  how  far  from  heaven 
they  are,  but  whether  they  are  going  to  it.  Whether  in  Gothic 
or  Classic  Art,  it  is  not  the  wisdom  or  the  barbarism  that  you 
have  to  estimate — not  the  skill  nor  the  rudeness  ; — but  the 
tendency.  For  instance,  just  before  coming  to  Oxford  this 
time,  I  received  by  happy  chance  from  Florence  the  noble 
book  just  published  at  Monte  Cassino,  giving  facsimiles  of  the 
Benedictine  manuscripts  there,  between  the  tenth  and  thir- 
teenth centuries.  Out  of  it  I  have  chosen  these  four  magnifi- 
cent letters  to  place  in  your  schools — magnificent  I  call  them, 
as  pieces  of  Gothic  writing  ;  but  they  are  still,  you  will  find 
on  close  examination,  extremely  limited  in  range  of  imagina- 
tive subject.  For  these,  and  all  the  other  letters  of  the  alpha- 
bet in  that  central  Benedictine  school  at  the  period  in  question, 
were  composed  of  nothing  else  but  packs  of  white  dogs,  jump- 
ing, with  more  contortion  of  themselves  than  has  been  con- 
trived even  by  modern  stage  athletes,  through  any  quantity  of 
hoops.  But  I  place  these  chosen  examples  in  our  series  of 
lessons,  not  as  patterns  of  dog-drawing,  but  as  distinctly  pro- 
gressive Gothic  art,  leading  infallibly  forward — though  the 
good  monks  had  no  notion  how  far, — to  the  Benedictine  collie, 
in  Landseer's  '  Shepherds  Chief  Mourner/  and  the  Benedic- 
tine bulldog,  in  Mr.  Britton  Biviere's  c  Sympathy.' 

On  the  other  hand,  here  is  an  enlargement,  made  to  about 
the  proper  scale,  from  a  small  engraving  which  I  brought  with 


CLASSIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING.  289 


me  from  Naples,  of  a  piece  of  the  Classic  Pompeian  art  which 
has  lately  been  so  much  the  admiration  of  the  aesthetic  cliques 
of  Paris  and  London.  It  purports  to  represent  a  sublimely 
classic  cat,  catching  a  sublimely  classic  chicken  ;  and  is  per- 
haps quite  as  much  like  a  cat  as  the  white  spectra  of  Monte 
Cassino  are  like  dogs.  But  at  a  glance  I  can  tell  you, — nor 
will  you,  surely,  doubt  the  truth  of  the  telling, — -that  it  is  art 
in  precipitate  decadence  ;  that  no  bettering  or  even  far  drag- 
ging on  of  its  existence  is  possible  for  it ; — that  it  is  the  work 
of  a  nation  already  in  the  jaws  of  death,  and  of  a  school  which 
is  passing  away  in  shame. 

Remember,  therefore,  and  write  it  on  the  very  tables  of  your 
heart,  that  you  must  never,  when  you  have  to  judge  of  char- 
acter in  national  styles,  regard  them  in  their  decadence,  but 
always  in  their  spring  and  youth.  Greek  art  is  to  be  studied 
from  Homeric  days  to  those  of  Marathon  ;  Gothic,  from 
Alfred  to  the  Black  Prince  in  England,  from  Clovis  to  St. 
Louis  in  France  ;  and  the  combination  of  both,  which  occurs 
first  with  absolute  balance  in  the  pulpit  by  Nicholas  of  Pisa  in 
her  baptistery,  thenceforward  up  to  Perugino  and  Sandro  Bot- 
ticelli. A  period  of  decadence  follows  among  all  the  nations 
of  Europe,  out  of  the  ashes  and  embers  of  which  the  flame 
leaps  again  in  Rubens  and  Vandyke  ;  and  so  gradually  glows 
and  coruscates  into  the  intermittent  corona  of  indescribably 
various  modern  mind,  of  which  in  England  you  may,  as  I 
said,  take  Sir  Joshua  and  Gainsborough  for  not  only  the  top- 
most, but  the  hitherto  total,  representatives ;  total,  that  is  to 
say,  out  of  the  range  of  landscape,  and  above  that  of  satire 
and  caricature.  All  that  the  rest  can  do  partially,  they  can  do 
perfectly.  They  do  it,  not  only  perfectly,  but  nationally  ;  they 
are  at  once  the  greatest,  and  the  Englishest,  of  all  our  school. 

The  Englishest — and  observe  also,  therefore  the  greatest : 
take  that  for  an  universal,  exceptionless  law  ; — the  largest  soul 
of  any  country  is  altogether  its  own.  Not  the  citizen  of  the 
world,  but  of  his  own  city, — nay,  for  the  best  men,  you  may 
say,  of  his  own  village.  Patriot  always,  provincial  always,  of 
his  own  crag  or  field  always.  A  Liddesdale  man,  or  a  Tyne- 
dale  ;  Angelico  from  the  Rock  of  Fesole,  or  Virgil  from  the 


290 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


Mantuan  marsh.  You  dream  of  National  unity  ! — you  might 
as  well  strive  to  melt  the  stars  down  into  one  nugget,  and 
stamp  them  small  into  coin  with  one  Cesar's  face. 

What  mental  qualities,  especially  English,  you  find  in  the 
painted  heroes  and  beauties  of  Reynolds  and  Gainsborough,  I 
can  only  discuss  with  you  hereafter.  But  what  external  and 
corporeal  qualities  these  masters  of  our  masters  love  to  paint, 
I  must  ask  you  to-day  to  consider  for  a  few  moments,  under 
Mr.  Carlyle's  guidance,  as  well  as  mine,  and  with  the  analysis 
of  '  Sartor  Resartus.'  Take,  as  types  of  the  best  work  ever 
laid  on  British  canvas, — types  which  I  am  sure  you  will  with- 
out demur  accept, — Sir  Joshua's  Age  of  Innocence,  and  Mrs. 
Pelham  feeding  chickens ;  Gainsborough's  Mrs.  Graham  di- 
vinely doing  nothing,  and  Blue  Boy  similarly  occupied  ;  and, 
finally,  Reynolds'  Lord  Heathfield  magnanimously  and  irrevo- 
cably locking  up  Gibraltar.  Suppose,  now,  under  the  instiga- 
tion of  Mr.  Carlyle  and  '  Sartor,'  and  under  the  counsel  of 
Zeuxis  and  Parrhasius,  we  had  it  really  in  our  power  to  bid 
Sir  Joshua  and  Gainsborough  paint  all  these  over  again,  in 
the  classic  manner.  Would  you  really  insist  on  having  her 
wThite  frock  taken  off  the  Age  of  Innocence  ;  on  the  Blue  Boy  s 
divesting  himself  of  his  blue  ;  on — we  may  not  dream  of  any- 
thing more  classic — Mrs.  Graham's  taking  the  feathers  out  of 
her  hat ;  and  on  Lord  Heathfield's  parting, — I  dare  not  sug- 
gest, with  his  regimentals,  but  his  orders  of  the  Bath,  or  what 
else  ? 

I  own  that  I  cannot,  even  myself,  as  I  propose  the  alterna- 
tives, answer  absolutely  as  a  Goth,  nor  without  some  wistful 
leanings  towards  classic  principle.  Nevertheless,  I  feel  confi- 
dent in  your  general  admission  that  the  charm  of  all  these  pict- 
ures is  in  great  degree  dependent  on  toilette  ;  that  the  fond 
and  graceful  flatteries  of  each  master  do  in  no  small  measure 
consist  in  his  management  of  frillings  and  trimmings,  cuffs  and 
collarettes  ;  and  on  beautiful  Singings  or  fastenings  of  investi- 
ture, which  can  only  here  and  there  be  called  a  drapery,  but 
insists  on  the  perf ectness  of  the  forms  it  conceals,  and  deepens 
their  harmony  by  its  contradiction.  And  although  now  and 
then,  when  great  ladies  wish  to  be  painted  as  sibyls  or  god* 


CLASSIC  SCHOOLS  OF  rAIJVTlJVG. 


291 


desses,  Sir  Joshua  does  his  best  to  bethink  himself  of  Michael 
Angelo,  and  Guido,  and  the  Lightnings,  and  the  Auroras,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it, — you  will,  I  think,  admit  that  the  culminat- 
ing sweetness  and  rightness  of  him  are  in  some  little  Lady  So- 
and-so,  with  round  hat  and  strong  shoes  ;  and  that  a  final 
separation  from  the  Greek  art  which  can  be  proud  in  a  torso 
without  a  head,  is  achieved  by  the  master  who  paints  for  you 
five  little  girls'  heads,  without  ever  a  torso  ! 

Thus,  then,  we  arrive  at  a  clearly  intelligible  distinction  be- 
tween the  Gothic  and  Classic  schools,  and  a  clear  notion  also 
of  their  dependence  on  one  another.  All  jesting  apart, — I 
think  you  may  safely  take  Luca  della  Robbia  with  his  scholars 
for  an  exponent  of  their  unity,  to  all  nations.  Luca  is  brightly 
Tuscan,  with  the  dignity  of  a  Greek  ;  he  has  English  simplic- 
ity, French  grace,  Italian  devotion, — and  is,  I  think,  delightful 
to  the  truest  lovers  of  art  in  all  nations,  and  of  all  ranks.  The 
Florentine  Contadina  rejoices  to  see  him  above  her  fruit-stall 
in  the  Mercato  Vecchio  :  and,  having  by  chance  the  other  day 
a  little  Nativity  by  him  on  the  floor  of  my  study  (one  of  his 
frequentest  designs  of  the  Infant  Christ  laid  on  the  ground, 
and  the  Madonna  kneeling  to  Him) — having  it,  I  say,  by 
chance  on  the  floor,  when  a  fashionable  little  girl  with  her 
mother  came  to  see  me,  the  child  about  three  years  old — 
though  there  were  many  pretty  and  glittering  things  about 
the  room  which  might  have  caught  her  eye  or  her  fancy,  the 
first  thing,  nevertheless,  my  little  lady  does,  is  to  totter  quietly 
up  to  the  white  Infant  Christ,  and  kiss  it. 

Taking,  then,  Luca,  for  central  between  Classic  and  Gothic 
in  sculpture,  for  central  art  of  Florence,  in  painting,  I  show 
you  the  copies  made  for  the  St.  George's  Guild,  of  the  two 
frescoes  by  Sandro  Botticelli,  lately  bought  by  the  French 
Government  for  the  Louvre.  These  copies,  made  under  the 
direction  of  Mr.  C.  F.  Murray,  while  the  frescoes  were  still 
untouched,  are  of  singular  value  now.  For  in  their  transfer- 
ence to  canvas  for  carriage  much  violent  damage  was  sustained 
by  the  originals  ;  and  as,  even  before,  they  were  not  present- 
able to  the  satisfaction  of  the  French  public,  the  backgrounds 
were  filled  in  with  black,  the  broken  edges  cut  away ;  and,  thus 


292 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND, 


repainted  and  maimed,  they  are  now,  disgraced  and  glassless, 
let  into  the  wall  of  a  stair-landing  on  the  outside  of  the  Louvre 
galleries. 

You  will  judge  for  yourselves  of  their  deservings  ;  but  for 
my  own  part  I  can  assure  you  of  their  being  quite  central  and 
classic  Florentine  painting,  and  types  of  the  manner  in  which, 
so  far  as  you  follow  the  instructions  given  in  the  '  Laws  of 
Fesole,'  you  will  be  guided  to  paint.  Their  subjects  should 
be  of  special  interest  to  us  in  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  as  bear- 
ing on  institutions  of  colleges  for  maidens  no  less  than  bache- 
lors. For  these  frescoes  represent  the  Florentine  ideal  of  edu- 
cation for  maid  and  bachelor, — the  one  baptised  by  the  Graces 
for  her  marriage,  and  the  other  brought  to  the  tutelage  of  the 
Great  Powers  of  Knowledge,  under  a  great  presiding  Muse, 
whose  name  you  must  help  me  to  interpret ;  and  with  good 
help,  both  from  maid  and  bachelor,  I  hope  we  shall  soon  be 
able  to  name,  and  honour,  all  their  graces  and  virtues  rightly. 

Five  out  of  the  six  Sciences  and  Powers  on  her  right  hand' 
and  left,  I  know.  They  are,  on  her  left — geometry,  astronomy, 
and  music  ;  on  her  right — logic  and  rhetoric.  The  third, 
nearest  her,  I  do  not  know,  and  will  not  guess.  She  herself 
bears  a  mighty  bow,  and  I  could  give  you  conjectural  inter- 
pretations of  her,  if  I  chose,  to  any  extent  ;  but  will  wait  until 
I  hear  what  you  think  of  her  yourselves.  I  must  leave  you  also 
to  discover  by  whom  the  youth  is  introduced  to  the  great  con- 
clave ;  but  observe,  that,  as  in  the  frescoes  of  the  Spanish 
Chapel,  before  he  can  approach  that  presence  he  has  passed 
through  the  'Strait  Gate,'  of  which  the  bar  has  fallen,  and  tho 
valve  is  thrown  outwards.  This  portion  of  the  fresco,  on 
which  the  most  important  significance  of  the  whole  depended, 
was  cut  away  in  the  French  restoration. 

Taking  now  Luca  and  Sandro  for  standards  of  sweet  con- 
sent in  the  feelings  of  either  school,  falling  aside  from  them 
according  to  their  likings  or  knowledge,  you  have  the  two 
evermore  adverse  parties,  of  whom  Lord  Lindsay  speaks,  as 
one  studying  the  spirit,  and  the  other  the  flesh :  but  you  will 
find  it  more  simply  true  to  say  that  the  one  studies  the  head, 
and  the  other  the  body.    And  I  think  I  am  almost  alone 


CLASSIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


293 


among  recent  tutors  or  professors,  in  recommending  you  to 
study  both,  at  their  best,  and  neither  the  skull  of  the  one,  nor 
skeleton  of  the  other. 

I  had  a  special  lesson,  leading  me  to  this  balance,  when  I 
was  in  Venice,  in  1880.  The  authorities  of  the  Academy  did 
me  the  grace  of  taking  down  my  two  pet  pictures  of  St. 
Ursula,  and  putting  them  into  a  quiet  room  for  me  to  copy. 
Now  in  this  quiet  room  where  I  was  allowed  to  paint,  there 
were  a  series  of  casts  from  the  -ZEgina  marbles,  which  I  never 
had  seen  conveniently  before  ;  and  so,  on  my  right  hand  and 
left,  I  had,  all  day  long,  the  best  pre-Praxitelite  Classic  art, 
and  the  best  pre-Eaphaelite  Gothic  art :  and  could  turn  to 
this  side,  or  that,  in  an  instant,  to  enjoy  either  ; — which  I 
could  do,  in  each  case,  with  my  whole  heart ;  only  on  this 
condition,  that  if  I  wTas  to  admire  St.  Ursula,  it  was  necessary 
on  the  whole  to  be  content  with  her  face,  and  not  to  be  too 
critical  or  curious  about  her  elbows  ;  but,  in  the  JEgina  mar- 
bles, one's  principal  attention  had  to  be  given  to  the  knees 
and  elbows,  while  no  ardent  sympathies  were  excited  by  the 
fixed  smile  upon  the  face. 

Without  pressing  our  northern  cherubic  principles  to  an 
extreme,  it  is  really  a  true  and  extremely  important  conse- 
quence that  all  portraiture  is  essentially  Gothic.  You  will 
find  it  stated — and  with  completely  illustrative  proof,  in  '  Ara- 
tra  Penteliei,'  that  portraiture  was  the  destruction  of  Greek 
design  ;  certain  exceptions  being  pointed  out  which  I  do  not 
wish  you  now  to  be  encumbered  with.  You  may  understand 
broadly  that  we  Goths  claim  portraiture  altogether  for  our 
own,  and  contentedly  leave  the  classic  people  to  round  their 
chins  by  rule,  and  fix  their  smiles  by  precedent :  we  like  a 
little  irregularity  in  feature,  and  a  little  caprice  in  humour — 
and  with  the  condition  of  dramatic  truth  in  passion,  neces- 
sarily accept  dramatic  difference  in  feature. 

Our  English  masters  of  portraiture  must  not  therefore 
think  that  I  have  treated  them  with  disrespect,  in  not  naming 
them,  in  these  lectures,  separately  from  others.  Portraiture 
is  simply  a  necessary  function  of  good  Gothic  painting,  nor 
can  any  man  claim  pre-eminence  in  epic  or  historic  art  who 


294 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


does  not  first  excel  in  that.  Nevertheless,  be  it  said  in  pass- 
ing, that  the  number  of  excellent  portraits  given  daily  in  our 
illustrated  papers  prove  the  skill  of  mere  likeness-taking  to 
be  no  unfrequent  or  particularly  admirable  one  ;  and  that  it 
is  to  be  somewhat  desired  that  our  professed  portrait-painters 
should  render  their  work  valuable  in  all  respects,  and  exem- 
plary in  its  art,  no  less  than  delightful  in  its  resemblaneee 
The  public,  who  are  naturally  in  the  habit  of  requiring  rather 
the  felicity  and  swiftness  of  likeness  than  abstract  excellence 
in  painting,  are  always  ready  to  forgive  the  impetuosity  which 
resembles  force  ;  and  the  interests  connected  with  rate  of  pro- 
duction tend  also  towards  the  encouragement  of  sujDerncial 
execution.  Whereas  in  a  truly  great  school,  for  the  reasons 
given  in  my  last  lecture,  it  may  often  be  inevitable,  and  some- 
times desirable,  that  works  of  high  imaginative  range  and 
faculty  should  be  slightly  traced,  and  without  minuteness 
finished  ;  but  there  is  no  excuse  for  imperfection  in  a  por- 
trait, or  failure  of  attention  to  its  minor  accessories.  I  have 
long  ago  given,  for  one  instance  of  perfect  portraiture,  Hol- 
bein's George  Guy  sen,  at  Berlin,  quite  one  of  the  most  accom- 
plished pictures  in  the  world  ;  and  in  my  last  visit  to  Florence 
none  of  the  pictures  before  known  in  the  Uffizii  retained  their 
power  over  me  so  completely  as  a  portrait  of  a  lady  in  the 
Tribune,  which  is  placed  as  a  pendant  to  Raphael's  Fornarina, 
and  has  always  been  attributed  to  Raphael,  being  without 
doubt  by  some  earlier  and  more  laborious  master  ;  and,  by 
whomsoever  it  may  be,  unrivalled  in  European  galleries  for 
its  faultless  and  unaffected  finish. 

I  may  be  permitted  in  this  place  to  express  my  admiration 
of  the  kind  of  portraiture,  which  without  supporting  its  claim 
to  public  attention  by  the  celebrity  of  its  subjects,  renders 
the  pictures  of  Mr.  Stacy  Marks  so  valuable  as  epitomes  and 
types  of  English  life.  No  portrait  of  any  recognized  master 
in  science  could  be  more  interesting  than  the  gentle  Professor 
in  this  year's  Academy,  from  whom  even  a  rebelliously  super- 
ficial person  like  myself  might  be  content  to  receive  instruc* 
tion  in  the  mysteries  of  anatomy.  Many  an  old  traveler's  re* 
membrances  were  quite  pathetically  touched  by  his  lnonu* 


CLASSIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


295 


mental  record  of  the  *  Three  Jolly  Postboys';  and  that  he 
scarcely  paints  for  us  but  in  play,  is  our  own  fault.  Among 
all  the  endeavours  in  English  historical  painting  exhibited  in 
recent  years,  quite  the  most  conscientious,  vivid  and  instruc- 
tive, was  Mr.  Marks'  rendering  of  the  interview  between  Lord 
Say  and  Jack  Cade  ;  and  its  quiet  sincerity  was  only  the 
cause  of  its  being  passed  without  attention. 

In  turning  now  from  these  subjects  of  Gothic  art  to  con- 
sider the  classic  ideal,  though  I  do  so  in  painful  sense  of 
transgressing  the  limits  of  my  accurate  knowledge,  I  do  not 
feel  entirely  out  of  my  element,  because  in  some  degree 
I  claim  even  Sir  Frederick  Leighton  as  a  kindred  Goth.  For, 
if  you  will  overpass  quickly  in  your  minds  what  you  remem- 
ber of  the  treasures  of  Greek  antiquity,  you  will  find  that, 
among  them  all,  you  can  get  no  notion  of  what  a  Greek  little 
girl  was  like.  Matronly  Junos,  and  tremendous  Demeters, 
and  Gorgonian  Minervas,  as  many  as  you  please  ;  but  for  my 
own  part,  always  speaking  as  a  Goth,  I  had  much  rather  have 
had  some  idea  of  the  Spartan  Helen  dabbling  with  Castor 
and  Pollux  in  the  Eurotas, — none  of  them  over  ten  years  old. 
And  it  is  with  extreme  gratitude,  therefore,  and  unqualified 
admiration,  that  I  find  Sir  Frederick  condescending  from  the 
majesties  of  Olympus  to  the  worship  of  these  unappalling 
powers,  which,  heaven  be  thanked,  are  as  brightly  Anglo-Saxon 
as  Hellenic  ;  and  painting  for  us,  with  a  soft  charm  peculiarly 
his  own,  the  witchcraft  and  the  wonderfulness  of  childhood. 

I  have  no  right  whatever  to  speak  of  the  wrorks  of  higher 
effort  and  claim,  which  have  been  the  result  of  his  acutely  ob- 
servant and  enthusiastic  study  of  the  organism  of  the  human 
body.  I  am  indeed  able  to  recognize  his  skill ;  but  have  no 
sympathy  with  the  subjects  that  admit  of  its  display.  I  am 
enabled,  however,  to  show  you  with  what  integrity  of  applica- 
tion it  has  been  gained,  by  his  kindness  in  lending  me  for  the 
Buskin  school  two  perfect  early  drawings,  one  of  a  lemon 
tree, — and  another,  of  the  same  date,  of  a  Byzantine  well, 
which  determine  for  you  without  appeal,  the  question  respect- 
ing necessity  of  delineation  as  the  first  skill  of  a  painter.  Of 
all  our  present  masters,  Sir  Frederick  Leighton  delights  most 


296 


THE  ART  OF  BIN  GLAND. 


in  softly-blended  colours,  and  Lis  ideal  of  beauty  is  mora 
nearly  that  of  Correggio  than  any  seen  since  Correggios time, 
liut  you  see  by  what  precision  of  terminal  outline  he  at  first 
restrained,  and  exalted,  his  gift  of  beautiful  vaghezza. 

Nor  is  the  lesson  one  whit  less  sternly  conveyed  to  you  by 
the  work  of  M.  Alma  Tadema,  who  differs  from  all  the  artists 
I  have  ever  known,  except  John  Lewis,  in  the  gradual  in- 
crease of  technical  accuracy,  which  attends  and  enhances 
together  the  expanding  range  of  his  dramatic  invention  ;  while 
every  year  he  displays  more  varied  and  complex  powers  of 
minute  draughtsmanship,  more  especially  in  architectural  de- 
tail, wherein,  somewhat  priding  myself  as  a  specialty,  I  never- 
theless receive  continual  lessons  from  him  ;  except  only  in  this 
one  point, — that,  with  me,  the  translucency  and  glow  of 
marble  is  the  principal  character  of  its  substance,  while  with 
M.  Tadema  it  is  chiefly  the  superficial  lustre  and  veining 
which  seem  to  attract  him  ;  and  these,  also,  seen,  not  in  the 
strength  of  southern  sun,  but  in  the  cool  twilight  of  luxurious 
chambers.  With  which  insufficient,  not  to  say  degrading, 
choice  of  architectural  colour  and  shade,  there  is  a  fallacy  in 
his  classic  idealism,  against  which,  while  I  respectfully  ac- 
knowledge his  scholarship  and  his  earnestness,  it  is  necessary 
that  you  should  be  gravely  and  conclusively  warned. 

I  said  that  the  Greeks  studied  the  body  glorified  by  war ; 
but  much  more,  remember,  they  studied  the  mind  glorified  by 
it.  It  is  the  p.rqvi<£  A^iAtJos,  not  the  muscular  force,  which  the 
good  beauty  of  the  body  itself  signifies ;  and  you  may  most 
strictly  take  the  Homeric  words  describing  the  aspect  of 
Achilles  showing  himself  on  the  Greek  rampart  as  represent- 
ative of  the  total  Greek  ideal.  Learn  by  heart,  unforgettably^ 
the  seven  lines — 

Avrtcp  'A^iAA-cus  copro  Ail  cplkos  *  au^>l  8'  AB^wq 
"fljiiois  IcbO'i/jLOicri  ficLK*  AiytSa  Qva,o-av6t(j<rav  • 
'Afxcpl  5e  ol  K€(pa\fj  vt<pos  e<rre(p€  5?a  Oedcou 
Xpvtreou,  6/c  5s  avrov  5a?e  <px6ya  TrautyapSoocray. 
"Hvioxoi  8'  eKT\r)y€Vy  iirel  ih*ov  '  <xK.afj.aTOV  irvp 
Aeiuov  virep  K€<paArjs  /xeyaOv^ov  TirjAftoovus 
AaiofAeyov  •  to  5'  CSate  6ea  jAautcMir.s  'KQit/r): 


CLASSIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


297 


which  are  enough  to  remind  you  of  the  whole  context,  and  to 
assure  you  of  the  association  of  light  and  cloud,  in  their  ter- 
rible mystery,  with  the  truth  and  majesty  of  human  form,  in 
the  Greek  conception  ;  light  and  cloud,  whether  appointed 
either  to  show  or  to  conceal,  both  given  by  a  divine  spirit, 
according  to  the  bearing  of  your  own  university  shield, 
"Dominus  illuminatio."  In  all  ancient  heroic  subjects,  you 
will  find  these  two  ideas  of  light  and  mystery  combined ;  and 
these  with  height  of  standing — the  Goddess  central  and  high 
in  the  pediment  of  her  temple,  the  hero  on  his  chariot,  or  the 
Egyptian  king  colossal  above  his  captives. 

Now  observe,  that  whether  of  Greek  or  Eoman  life,  M. 
Alma  Tadema's  pictures  are  always  in  twilight — interiors, 
vtto  avpfjuyeL  o-Kia.  I  don't  know  if  you  saw  the  collection  of  them 
last  year  at  the  Grosvenor,  but  with  that  universal  twilight 
there  was  also  universal  crouching  or  lolling  posture, — either 
in  fear  or  laziness.  And  the  most  gloomy,  the  most  crouch- 
ing, the  most  dastardly  of  all  these  representations  of  classic 
life,  was  the  little  picture  called  the  Pyrrhic  Dance,  of  which 
the  general  effect  was  exactly  like  a  microscopic  view  of  a 
small  detachment  of  black-beetles,  in  search  of  a  dead  rat. 

I  have  named  to  you  the  Achillean  splendour  as  primary 
type  of  Greek  war  ;  but  you  need  only  glance,  in  your  mem- 
ory, for  a  few  instants,  over  the  habitual  expressions  of  all 
the  great  poets,  to  recognize  the  magnificence  of  light,  terrible 
or  hopeful ;  the  radiance  of  armour,  over  all  the  field  of  battle, 
or  flaming  at  every  gate  of  the  city  ;  as  in  the  blazoned  her- 
aldry of  the  seven  against  Thebes, — or  beautiful,  as  in  the  gol- 
den armour  of  Glaucus,  down  to  the  baser  brightness  for 
which  Camilla  died  :  remember  also  that  the  ancient  Doric 
dance  was  strictly  the  dance  of  Apollo  ;  seized  again  by  your 
own  mightiest  poet  for  the  chief  remnant  of  the  past  in  the 
Greece  of  to-day — 

- '  You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet ; 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ?  " 

And  this  is  just  the  piece  of  classic  life  which  your  nine- 
teenth century  fancy  sets  forth  under  its  fuliginous  and  can- 
tharoid  disfigurement  and  disgrace. 


298 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


I  say,  your  nineteenth  century  fancy,  for  M.  Alma  Tadema 
does  but  represent — or  rather,  has  haplessly  got  himself  en- 
tangled in, — the  vast  vortex  of  recent  Italian  and  French  revo- 
lutionary rage  against  all  that  resists,  or  ever  did  resist,  its 
license  ;  in  a  word,  against  all  priesthood  and  knighthood. 

The  Soman  state,  observe,  in  the  strength  of  it  expresses 
both  these  ;  the  orders  of  chivalry  do  not  rise  out  of  the  dis- 
ciplining of  the  hordes  of  Tartar  horsemen,  but  by  the  Chris- 
tianizing of  the  Bom  an  eques  ;  and  the  noble  priesthood  of 
Western  Christendom  is  not,  in  the  heart  of  it  hieratic,  but 
pontifical.  And  it  is  the  last  corruption  of  this  Eoman  state, 
and  its  Bacchanalian  phrenzy,  which  M.  Alma  Tadema  seems 
to  hold  it  his  heavenly  mission  to  pourtray. 

I  have  no  mind,  as  I  told  you,  to  darken  the  healthy  work 
I  hope  to  lead  you  into  by  any  frequent  reference  to  antago- 
nist influences.  But  it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  me  to-day 
to  distinguish,  once  for  all,  what  it  is  above  everything  your 
duty,  as  scholars  in  Oxford,  to  know  and  love — the  perpetual 
laws  of  classic  literature  and  art,  the  laws  of  the  Muses,  from 
what  has  of  late  again  infected  the  schools  of  Europe  under 
the  pretence  of  classic  study,  being  indeed  only  the  continu- 
ing poison  of  the  Renaissance,  and  ruled,  not  by  the  choir  of 
the  Muses,  but  by  the  spawn  of  the  Python.  And  this  I  have 
been  long-minded  to  do  ;  but  am  only  now  enabled  to  do 
completely  and  clearly,  and  beyond  your  doubt,  by  having  ob- 
tained for  you  the  evidence,  unmistakable,  of  what  remains 
classic  from  the  ancient  life  of  Italy — the  ancient  Etruscan 
life,  down  to  this  day ;  which  is  the  perfection  of  humility, 
modesty,  and  serviceableness,  as  opposed  to  the  character 
which  remains  in  my  mind  as  the  total  impression  of  the 
Academy  and  Grosvenor, — that  the  young  people  of  this  day 
desire  to  be  painted  first  as  proud,  saying,  How  grand  I  am  ; 
next  as  immodest,  saying,  How  beautiful  I  am  ;  lastly  as  idle, 
saying,  I  am  able  to  pay  for  flunkeys,  and  never  did  a  stroke 
of  work  in  my  life. 

Since  the  day  of  the  opening  of  the  great  Manchester  ex- 
hibition in  1851,  every  Englishman,  desiring  to  express  inter- 
est in  the  arts,  considers  it  his  duty  to  assert  with  Keats,  that 


CLASSIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING.  299 


a  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever.  I  do  not  know  in  what 
sense  the  saying  was  understood  by  the  Manchester  school. 
But  this  I  know,  that  what  joy  may  remain  still  for  you  and 
for  your  children — in  the  fields,  the  homes,  and  the  churches 
of  England — you  must  win  by  otherwise  reading  the  falla- 
cious line.  A  beautiful  thing  may  exist  but  for  a  moment,  as 
a  reality  ; — it  exists  for  ever  as  a  testimony.  To  the  law  and  to 
the  witness  of  it  the  nations  must  appeal,  "in  secula  seculo- 
rum  " ;  and  in  very  deed  and  very  truth,  a  thing  of  beauty  is 
a  law  for  ever. 

That  is  the  true  meaning  of  classic  art  and  of  classic  litera- 
ture ; — not  the  license  of  pleasure,  but  the  law  of  goodness  ; 
and  if,  of  the  two  words,  kolXos  KayaOos,  one  can  be  left  un- 
spoken, as  implied  by  the  other,  it  is  the  first,  not  the  last. 
It  is  written  that  the  Creator  of  all  things  beheld  them — not 
in  that  they  were  beautiful,  but  in  that  they  were  good. 

This  law  of  beauty  may  be  one  for  aught  we  know,  fulfill- 
ing itself  more  perfectly  as  the  years  roll  on  ;  but  at  least  ifc 
is  one  from  which  no  jot  shall  pass.  The  beauty  of  Greece 
depended  on  the  laws  of  Lycurgus  ;  the  beauty  of  Kome,  on 
those  of  Numa  ;  our  own,  on  the  laws  of  Christ.  On  all  the 
beautiful  features  of  men  and  women,  throughout  the  ages, 
are  written  the  solemnities  and  majesty  of  the  law  they  knew, 
with  the  charity  and  meekness  of  their  obedience  ;  on  all  un- 
beautiful  features  are  written  either  ignorance  of  the  law,  or 
the  malice  and  insolence  of  the  disobedience. 

I  showed  you,  on  the  occasion  of  my  first  address,  a  draw- 
ing of  the  death  of  a  Tuscan  girl, — a  saint,  in  the  full  sense  of 
that  word,  such  as  there  have  been,  and  still  are,  among  the 
Christian  women  of  all  nations.  I  bring  you  to-day  the  por- 
trait of  a  Tuscan  Sibyl, — such  as  there  have  been,  and  still 
are.  She  herself  is  still  living  ;  her  portrait  is  the  first  draw- 
ing illustrating  the  book  of  the  legends  of  the  peasantry  of  Val 
d'Arno,  which  I  obtained  possession  of  in  Florence  last  year ; 
of  which  book  I  will  now  read  you  part  of  the  preface,  in 
which  the  authoress  gives  you  the  story  of  the  life  of  this 
Etrurian  Sibyl. 

"  Beatrice  was  the  daughter  of  a  stonemason  at  Melo,  a 


300 


TEE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


little  village  of  not  very  easy  access  on  the  mountain-side 
above  Cutigliano  ;  and  her  mother  having  died  in  Beatrice's 
infancy,  she  became  from  early  childhood,  the  companion  and 
assistant  of  her  father,  accompanying  him  to  his  winter 
labours  in  the  Maremma,  and  as  she  grew  stronger,  helping 
him  at  his  work  by  bringing  him  stones  for  the  walls  and 
bridges  which  he  built — carrying   them  balanced  on  her 
head.    She  had  no  education,  in  the  common  sense  of  the 
word,  never  learning  even  the  alphabet ;  but  she  had  a  won- 
derful memory,  and  could  sing  or  recite  long  pieces  of  poetry. 
As  a  girl,  she  used  in  summer  to  follow  the  sheep,  with  her 
distaff  at  her  waist,  and  would  fill  up  her  hours  of  solitude  by 
singing  such  ballads  as  '  The  War  of  St.  Michael  and  the  Dra- 
gon, '  The  Creation  of  the  World,  and  the  Fall  of  Man,'  or, 
6  The  History  of  San  Pelegrino,  son  of  Komano,  King  of  Scot- 
land : '  and  now,  in  her  old  age,  she  knows  nearly  all  the 
New  Testament  history,  and  much  of  the  Old,  in  a  poetical 
form.    She  was  very  beautiful  then,  they  say  ;  with  curling 
black  hair  and  wonderful-inspired  looking  eyes,  and  there  must 
always  have  been  a  great  charm  in  her  voice  and  smile ;  so  it  is 
no  great  wonder  that  Matteo  Bernardi,  much  older  than  her- 
self, and  owner  of  a  fine  farm  at  Pian  degli  Ontani,  and  of 
many  cattle,  chose  rather  to  marry  the  shepherd  girl  who 
could  sing  so  sweetly,  than  another  woman  whom  his  family 
liked  better,  and  who  might  perhaps  have  brought  him  more 
increase  of  worldly  prosperity.    On  Beatrice's  wedding-day 
according  to  the  old  custom  of  the  country,  one  or  two 
poets  improvised  verses  suitable  to  the  occasion  ;  and  as  she 
listened  to  them,  suddenly  she  felt  in  herself  a  new  power, 
and  began  to  sing  the  poetry  which  was  then  born  in  her 
mind,  and  having  once  begun,  found  it  impossible  to  stop, 
and  kept  on  singing  a  great  while,  so  that  all  were  astonished, 
and  her  uncle,  who  was  present,  said — "Beatrice,  you  have 
deceived  me  !  if  I  had  known  what  you  were,  I  would  have 
put  you  in  a  convent."    From  that  time  forth  she  was  the 
great  poetess  of  all  that  part  of  the  country  ;  and  was  sent  f 01 
to  sing  and  recite  at  weddings,  and  other  festivals,  for  many 
miles  around :  and  perhaps  she  might  have  been  happy,  but 


CLASSIC  SCHOOLS  OF  PAINTING. 


301 


lier  husband's  sister,  Barbara,  who  lived  in  the  house,  and 
who  had  not  approved  of  the  marriage,  tried  very  wickedly  to 
set  her  brother  against  his  wife,  and  to  some  extent  succeeded. 
He  tried  to  stop  her  singing,  which  seemed  to  him  a  sort  of 
madness,  and  at  times  he  treated  her  with  great  unkindness  ; 
but  sing  she  must  and  sing  she  did,  for  it  was  what  the  Lord 
made  her  for,  and  she  lived  down  all  their  dislike  ;  her  hus- 
band loved  her  in  his  old  age,  and  Barbara,  whom  she  nursed 
with  motherly  kindness  through  a  long  and  most  distressing 
illness,  was  her  friend  before  she  died.  Beatrice  is  still  liv- 
ing, at  a  great  age  now,  bat  still  retaining  much  of  her  old 
beauty  and  brilliancy,  and  is  waited  on  and  cared  for  with 
much  affection  by  a  pretty  granddaughter  bearing  the  same 
name  as  herself." 

There  are  just  one  or  two  points  I  want  you  to  note  in  this 
biography,  specially. 

The  girl  is  put,  in  her  youth,  to  three  kinds  of  noble  work. 
She  is  a  shepherdess,  like  St.  Genevieve  ;  a  spinner  and  knit- 
ter, like  Queen  Bertha  ;  chiefly  and  most  singularly,  she  is 
put  to  help  her  father  in  the  pontifical  art  of  bridge-building. 
Gymnastic  to  purpose,  you  observe.  In  the  last,  or  last  but 
one,  number  of  your  favourite  English  chronicle,  the  proud 
mother  says  of  her  well-trained  daughters,  that  there  is  not 
one  who  could  not  knock  down  her  own  father :  here  is  a 
strong  daughter  who  can  help  her  father — a  Grace  Darling  of 
the  rivers  instead  of  the  sea. 

These  are  the  first  three  things  to  be  noted  of  her.  Next 
the  material  of  her  education, — not  in  words,  but  in  thoughts, 
and  the  greatest  of  thoughts.  You  continually  hear  that 
Koman  Catholics  are  not  allowed  to  read  the  Bible.  Here  is  a 
little  shepherdess  who  has  it  in  her  heart.  . 

Next,  the  time  of  her  inspiration, — at  her  wedding  feast ; 
as  in  the  beginning  of  her  Master's  ministry,  at  Cana.  Here 
is  right  honour  put  upon  marriage  ;  and,  in  spite  of  the  efforts 
made  to  disturb  her  household  peace,  it  was  entirely  blessed 
to  her  in  her  children :  nor  to  her  alone,  but  to  us,  and  to 
myriads  with  us  ;  for  her  second  son,  Angelo,  is  the  original  of 
the  four  drawings  of  St.  Christopher  which  illustrate  the  cen- 


302 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


tral  poem  in  Miss  Alexander's  book  ;  and  which  are,  to  the  best 
of  my  knowledge,  the  most  beautiful  renderings  of  the  legend 
hitherto  attained  by  religious  imagination. 

And  as  you  dwell  on  these  portraits  of  a  noble  Tuscan  peas- 
ant, the  son  of  a  noble  Christian  mother, — learn  this  farther 
and  final  distinction  between  the  greatest  art  of  past  time, 
and  that  which  has  become  possible  now  and  in  future. 

The  Greek,  I  said,  pourtrayed  the  body  and  the  mind  of 
man,  glorified  in  mortal  wrar.  But  to  us  is  given  the  task  of 
holier  portraiture,  of  the  countenance  and  the  heart  of  man, 
glorified  by  the  peace  of  God. 

Whether  Francesca's  book  is  to  be  eventually  kept  together 
or  distributed  I  do  not  yet  know.  But  if  distributed,  the  draw- 
ings of  St.  Christopher  must  remain  in  Oxford,  being  as  I  have 
said,  the  noblest  statements  I  have  ever  seen  of  the  unchange- 
able meaning  of  this  Ford  of  ours,  for  all  who  pass  it  honestly, 
and  do  not  contrive  false  traverse  for  themselves  over  a  widened 
Magdalen  Bridge.  That  ford,  gentlemen,  for  ever, — know 
what  you  may, — hope  what  you  may, — believe  or  deny  wThat 
you  may, — you  have  to  pass  barefoot.  For  it  is  a  baptism  as 
well  as  a  ford,  and  the  waves  of  it,  as  the  sands,  are  holy. 
Your  youthful  days  in  this  place  are  to  you  the  dipping  of 
your  feet  in  the  brim  of  the  river,  which  is  to  be  manfully 
stemmed  by  you  all  your  days  ;  not  drifted  with, — nor  toyed 
upon.  Fallen  leaves  enough  it  is  strewn  with,  of  the  flowers 
of  the  forest ;  moraine  enough  it  bears,  of  the  ruin  of  the 
brave.  Your  task  is  to  cross  it ;  your  doom  may  be  to  go  down 
with  it,  to  the  depths  out  of  which  there  is  no  crying.  Trav- 
erse it,  staff  in  hand,  and  with  loins  girded,  and  with  what- 
soever law  of  Heaven  you  know,  for  your  light.  On  the  other 
side  is  the  Promised  Land,  the  Land  of  the  Leal, 


FAIRY  LAND, 


303 


LECTUEE  IV. 

Fairy  Land. 

MRS.  ALLINGHAM  AND  KATE  GREEN  AWAY. 

We  have  hitherto  been  considering  the  uses  of  legendary 
art  to  grown  persons,  and  to  the  most  learned  and  power- 
ful minds.  To-day  I  will  endeavour  to  note  with  you  some  of 
the  least  controvertible  facts  respecting  its  uses  to  children  ; 
and  to  obtain  your  consent  to  the  main  general  principles  on 
which  I  believe  it  should  be  offered  to  them. 

Here,  however,  I  enter  on  ground  where  I  must  guard  care- 
fully against  being  misled  by  my  own  predilections,  and  in 
which  also  the  questions  at  issue  are  extremely  difficult,  be- 
cause most  of  them  new7.  It  is  only  in  recent  times  that  pict- 
ures have  become  familiar  means  of  household  pleasure  and 
education :  only  in  our  own  clays — nay,  even  within  the  last 
ten  years  of  those,  that  the  means  of  illustration  by  colour- 
printing  have  been  brought  to  perfection,  and  art  as  exquisite 
as  we  need  desire  to  see  it,  placed,  if  our  school-boards  choose 
to  have  it  so,  within  the  command  of  every  nursery  gov- 
erness. 

Having  then  the  colour-print,  the  magic-lantern,  the  electric- 
light,  and  the — to  any  row  of  ciphers — magnifying,  lens,  it 
becomes  surely  very  interesting  to  consider  what  we  may  most 
wisely  represent  to  children  by  means  so  potent,  so  dazzling, 
and,  if  we  will,  so  faithful.  I  said  just  nowr  that  I  must  guard 
carefully  against  being  misled  by  my  own  predilections,  be- 
cause having  been  myself  brought  up  principally  on  fairy 
legends,  my  first  impulse  would  be  to  insist  upon  every  story 
we  tell  to  a  child  being  untrue,  and  every  scene  we  paint  for  it, 
impossible.  But  I  have  been  led,  as  often  before  confessed, 
gravely  to  doubt  the  expediency  of  some  parts  of  my  early 
training ;  and  perhaps  some  day  may  try  to  divest  myself 
wholly,  for  an  hour,  of  these  dangerous  recollections ;  and 
prepare  a  lecture  for  you  in  which  I  will  take  Mr.  Gradgrind 


304 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


on  his  own  terms,  and  consider  how  far,  making  it  a  rule  that 
we  exhibit  nothing  but  facts,  we  could  decorate  our  pages  of 
history,  and  illuminate  the  slides  of  our  lantern,  in  a  manner 
still  sufficiently  attractive  to  childish  taste.  For  indeed  poor 
Louise  and  her  brother,  kneeling  to  peep  under  the  fringes  of 
the  circus-tent,  are  as  much  in  search  after  facts  as  the  most 
scientific  of  us  all !  A  circus-rider,  with  his  hoop,  is  as  much 
a  fact  as  the  planet  Saturn  and  his  ring,  and  exemplifies  a 
great  many  more  laws  of  motion,  both  moral  and  physical  ; 
nor  are  any  descriptions  of  the  Valley  of  Diamonds,  or  the 
Lake  of  the  Black  Islands,  in  the  '  Arabian  Nights,'  any- 
thing like  so  wonderful  as  the  scenes  of  California  and  the 
Bocky  Mountains  which  you  may  find  described  in  the  April 
number  of  the  'Cornhill  Magazine/  under  the  heading  of 
'  Early  Spring  in  California  ' ;  and  may  see  represented  with 
most  sincere  and  passionate  enthusiasm  by  the  American  land- 
scape painter,  Mr.  Moran,  in  a  survey  lately  published  by  the 
Government  of  the  United  States. 

Scenes  majestic  as  these,  pourtrayed  with  mere  and  pure 
fidelity  by  such  scientific  means  as  I  have  referred  to,  would 
form  a  code  of  geographic  instruction  beyond  all  the  former 
grasp  of  young  people  ;  and  a  source  of  entertainment, — I  had 
nearly  said,  and  most  people  who  had  not  watched  the  minds 
of  children  carefully,  might  think, — inexhaustible.  Much,  in- 
deed, I  should  myself  hope  from  it.  but  by  no  means  an  infini- 
tude of  entertainment.  For  it  is  quite  an  inexorable  law  of 
this  poor  human  nature  of  ours,  that  in  the  development  of 
its  healthy  infancy,  it  is  put  by  Heaven  under  the  absolute 
necessity  of  using  its  imagination  as  well  as  its  lungs  and  its 
legs  ; — that  it  is  forced  to  develop  its  power  of  invention,  as 
a  bird  its  feathers  of  flight ;  that  no  toy  you  can  bestow  will 
supersede  the  pleasure  it  has  in  fancying  something  that  isn't 
there  ;  and  the  most  instructive  histories  you  can  compile  for 
it  of  the  wonders  of  the  world  will  never  conquer  the  interest 
of  the  tale  which  a  clever  child  can  tell  itself,  concerning  the 
shipwreck  of  a  rose-leaf  in  the  shallowTs  of  a  rivulet. 

One  of  the  most  curious  proofs  of  the  need  to  children  of 
this  exercise  of  the  inventive  and  believing  power, — the  besoin 


FAIRY  LAND. 


305 


de  croire,  which  precedes  the  besoin  cVaimer,  you  will  find  in 
the  way  you  destroy  the  vitality  of  a  toy  to  them,  by  bringing 
it  too  near  the  imitation  of  life.  You  never  find  a  child  make 
a  pet  of  a  mechanical  mouse  that  runs  about  the  floor — of  a 
poodle  that  yelps — of  a  tumbler  who  jumps  upon  wires.  The 
child  falls  in  love  with  a  quiet  thing,  with  an  ugly  one — nay, 
it  may  be,  with  one,  to  us,  totally  devoid  of  meaning.  My 
little — ever-so-many-times-grand — cousin,  Lily,  took  a  bit  of 
stick  with  a  round  knob  at  the  end  of  it  for  her  doll  one  day ; 
- — nursed  it  through  any  number  of  illnesses  with  the  most 
tender  solicitude  ;  and,  on  the  deeply-important  occasion  of 
its  having  a  new  nightgown  made  for  it,  bent  down  her 
mother's  head  to  receive  the  confidential  and  timid  whisper — 
"  Mamma,  perhaps  it  had  better  have  no  sleeves,  because,  as 
Bibsey  has  no  arms,  she  mightn't  like  it." 

I  must  take  notice  here,  but  only  in  passing, — the  subject 
being  one  to  be  followed  out  afterwards  in  studying  more 
grave  branches  of  art, — that  the  human  mind  in  its  full  energy 
having  thus  the  power  of  believing  simply  what  it  likes,  the 
responsibilities  and  the  fatalities  attached  to  the  effort  of  Faith 
are  greater  than  those  belonging  to  bodily  deed,  precisely  in 
the  degree  of  their  voluntariness.  A  man  can't  always  do  what 
he  likes,  but  he  can  always  fancy  what  he  likes  ;  and  he  may 
be  forced  to  do  wdiat  he  doesn't  like,  but  he  can't  be  forced 
to  fancy  what  he  doesn't  like. 

I  use  for  the  moment,  the  word  '  to  fancy  '  instead  of  ■  to 
believe/  because  the  whole  subject  of  Fidelity  and  Infidelity 
has  been  made  a  mere  mess  of  quarrels  and  blunders  by  our 
habitually  forgetting  that  the  proper  power  of  Faith  is  to  trust 
without  evidence,  not  with  evidence.  You  perpetually  hear 
people  say,  £  I  won't  believe  this  or  that  unless  you  give  me 
evidence  of  it.'  Why,  if  you  give  them  evidence  of  it,  they 
know  it, — they  don't  believe,  any  more.  A  man  doesn't  believe 
there's  any  danger  in  nitro-glycerine  ;  at  last  he  gets  his  par- 
lour-door blown  into  next  street.  He  is  then  better  informed 
on  the  subject,  but  the  time  for  belief  is  past. 

Only,  observe,  I  don't  say  that  you  can  fancy  what  you  like, 
to  the  degree  of  receiving  it  for  truth.    Heaven  forbid  we 


306 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


should  have  a  power  such  as  that,  for  it  would  be  one  of  vol- 
untary madness.  But  we  are,  in  the  most  natural  and  rational 
health,  able  to  foster  the  fancy,  up  to  the  point  of  influencing 
our  feelings  and  character  in  the  strongest  way  ;  and  for  the 
strength  of  that  healthy  imaginative  faculty,  and  all  the  blend- 
ing of  the  good  and  grace,  "  richiesto  al  vero  ed  al  trastullo,"  * 
we  are  wholly  responsible.  "We  may  cultivate  it  to  what  bright- 
ness we  choose,  merely  by  living  in  a  quiet  relation  with  nat- 
ural objects  and  great  and  good  people,  past  or  present ;  and 
we  may  extinguish  it  to  the  last  snuff,  merely  by  living  in 
town,  and  reading  the  £  Times '  every  morning. 

"  We  are  scarcely  sufficiently  conscious,"  says  Mr.  Kinglake, 
with  his  delicate  precision  of  serenity  in  satire,  "scarcely  suf- 
ficiently conscious  in  England,  of  the  great  debt  we  owe  to  the 
tvise  and  watchful  press  which  presides  over  the  formation  of  our 
opinions  ;  and  which  brings  about  this  splendid  result,  namely, 
that  in  matters  of  belief,  the  humblest  of  us  are  lifted  up  to 
the  level  of  the  most  sagacious,  so  that  really  a  simple  Cornet 
in  the  blues  is  no  more  likely  to  entertain  a  foolish  belief  about 
ghosts,  or  witchcraft,  or  any  other  supernatural  topic,  than 
the  Lord  High  Chancellor,  or  the  Leader  of  the  House  of 
Commons." 

And  thus,  at  the  present  day,  for  the  education  or  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  Fancy,  we  are  absolutely  left  to  our  choice. 
For  its  occupation,  not  wholly  so,  yet  in  a  far  greater  measure 
than  we  know.  Mr.  Wordsworth  speaks  of  it  as  only  impossible 
to  "have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea,"  because  the 
world  is  too  much  with  us ;  also  Mr.  Kinglake,  though  in  an- 
other place,  he  calls  it  "  a  vain  and  heathenish  longing  to  be 
fed  with  divine  counsels  from  the  lips  of  Pallas  Athene," — yet 
is  far  happier  than  the  most  scientific  traveller  could  be  in  a 
trigonometric  measurement,  when  he  discovers  that  Neptune 
could  really  have  seen  Troy  from  the  top  of  Samothrace  :  and 
I  believe  that  we  should  many  of  us  find  it  an  extremely  whole- 
some and  useful  method  of  treating  our  ordinary  affairs,  if  be- 
fore deciding,  even  upon  very  minor  points  of  conduct  admit- 
ting of  prudential  and  conscientious  debate,  we  were  in  the  habii 

*  Dante,  Purg.  xiv.  93. 


FAIRY  LAND. 


307 


of  imagining  that  Pallas  Athene  was  actually  in  the  room  with 
us,  or  at  least  outside  the  window  in  the  form  of  a  swallow, 
and  permitted  us,  on  the  condition  always  of  instant  obedience, 
to  ask  her  advice  upon  the  matter. 

Here  ends  my  necessary  parenthesis,  with  its  suspicion  of 
preachment,  for  which  I  crave  pardon,  and  I  return  to  my 
proper  subject  of  to-day, — the  art  which  intends  to  address 
only  childish  imagination,  and  whose  object  is  primarily  to 
entertain  with  grace. 

With  grace  : — I  insist  much  on  this  latter  word.  We  may 
allow  the  advocates  of  a  material  philosophy  to  insist  that 
every  wild-weed  tradition  of  fairies,  gnomes,  and  sylphs 
should  be  well  ploughed  out  of  a  child's  mind  to  prepare  it 
for  the  good  seed  of  the  Gospel  of — Disgrace  :  but  no  defence 
can  be  offered  for  the  presentation  of  these  ideas  to  its  mind 
in  a  form  so  vulgarized  as  to  defame  and  pollute  the  master- 
pieces of  former  literature.  It  is  perfectly  easy  to  convince 
the  young  proselyte  of  science  that  a  cobweb  on  the  top  of  a 
thistle  cannot  be  commanded  to  catch  a  honey-bee  for  him, 
without  introducing  a  dance  of  ungainly  fairies  on  the  site  of 
the  cabstand  under  the  Westminster  clock  tower,  or  making 
the  Queen  of  them  fall  in  love  with  the  sentry  on  guard. 

With  grace,  then,  assuredly, — and  I  think  we  may  add  also, 
with  as  much  seriousness  as  an  entirely  fictitious  subject  may 
admit  of— seeing  that  it  touches  the  border  of  that  higher 
world  which  is  not  fictitious.  We  are  all  perhaps  too  much 
in  the  habit  of  thinking  the  scenes  of  burlesque  in  the  '  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream '  exemplary  of  Shakespeare's  general 
treatment  of  fairy  character  :  we  should  always  remember 
that  he  places  the  most  beautiful  words  descriptive  of  virgin 
purity  which  English  poetry  possesses,  in  the  mouth  of  the 
Fairy  King,  and  that  to  the  Lord  of  Fancies  he  entrusts  the 
praise  of  the  conquest  of  Fancy, — 

"  In  maiden  meditation, — Fancy  free." 

Still  less  should  we  forget  the  function  of  household  benedic- 
tion, attributed  to  them  always  by  happy  national  super- 


308 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


stition,  and  summed  in  the  closing  lines  of  the  sama 
play,— 

"  With  this  field-dew  consecrate, 
Every  fairy  take  his  gait  ; 
And  each  several  chamber  bless, 
Through  this  palace,  with  sweet  peace. " 

With  seriousness  then, — but  only,  I  repeat,  such  as  entirely 
fictitious  elements  properly  admit  of.  The  general  grace  and 
sweetness  of  Scott's  moorland  fairy,  'The  "White  Lady/  failed 
of  appeal  to  the  general  justice  of  public  taste,  because  in  two 
places  he  fell  into  the  exactly  opposite  errors  of  unbecoming 
jest,  and  too  far-venturing  solemnity.  The  ducking  of  the 
Sacristan  offended  even  his  most  loving  readers  ;  but  it  of- 
fended them  chiefly  for  a  reason  of  which  they  were  in  great 
part  unconscious,  that  the  jest  is  carried  out  in  the  course  of 
the  charge  with  which  the  fairy  is  too  gravely  entrusted,  to 
protect,  for  Mary  of  Avenel,  her  mother's  Bible. 

It  is  of  course  impossible,  in  studying  questions  of  this 
kind,  to  avoid  confusion  between  what  is  fit  in  literature  and 
in  art ;  the  leading  principles  are  the  same  in  both,  but  of 
course  much  may  be  allowed  to  the  narrator  which  is  im- 
possible or  forbidden  to  the  draughtsman.  And  I  necessarily 
take  examples  chiefly  from  literature,  because  the  greatest 
masters  of  story  have  never  disdained  the  playfully  super- 
natural elements  of  fairy-tale,  while  it  is  extremely  rare  to 
find  a  good  painter  condescending  to  them, — or,  I  should 
rather  say,  contending  wTith  them,  the  task  being  indeed  one 
of  extreme  difficulty.  I  believe  Sir  Noel  Paton's  pictures  of 
the  Court  of  Titania,  and  Fairy  Eaid,  are  all  we  possess  in 
which  the  accomplished  skill  of  painting  has  been  devoted  to 
fairy-subject ;  and  my  impression  when  I  saw  the  former 
picture — the  latter  I  grieve  not  yet  to  have  seen — was  that 
the  artist  intended  rather  to  obtain  leave  by  the  closeness  of 
ocular  distance  to  display  the  exquisite  power  of  minute  de- 
lineation, which  he  felt  in  historical  painting  to  be  inappli- 
cable, than  to  arrest,  either  in  his  own  mind  or  the  spectator's, 
even  a  momentary  credence  in  the  enchantment  of  fairy-wand 
and  fairy-ring. 


FAIRY  LAND. 


809 


And  within  the  range  of  other  art  which  I  can  call  to  mind, 
touching  on  the  same  ground, — or  rather,  breathing  in  the 
same  air, — it  seems  to  me  a  sorrowful  and  somewhat  unac- 
countable law  that  only  grotesque  or  terrible  fancies  present 
themselves  forcibly  enough,  in  these  admittedly  fabling  states 
of  the  imagination,  to  be  noted  with  the  pencil.  For  instance, 
without  rating  too  highly  the  inventive  powers  of  the  old 
German  outline-draughtsman,  Retseh,  we  cannot  but  attribute 
to  him  a  very  real  gift  of  making  visibly  terrible  such  legend 
as  that  of  the  ballad  of  Leonora,  and  interpreting,  with  a  wild 
aspect  of  veracity,  the  passages  of  sorcery  in  '  Faust.'  But 
the  drawing  which  I  possess  by  his  hand,  of  the  Genius  of 
Poetry  riding  upon  a  swan,  could  not  be  placed  in  my  school 
with  any  hope  of  deepening  your  impression  either  of  the 
beauty  of  swans,  or  the  dignity  of  genii. 

You  must,  however,  always  carefully  distinguish  these  states 
of  gloomy  fantasy,  natural,  though  too  often  fatal,  to  men  of 
real  imagination, — the  spectra  which  appear,  whether  they 
desire  it  or  not, — to  men  like  Orcagna,  Durer,  Blake,  and 
Alfred  Bethel, — and  dwelt  upon  by  them,  in  the  hope  of  pro- 
ducing some  moral  impression  of  salutary  awe  by  their  record 
— as  in  Blake's  Book  of  Job,  in  Durer's  Apocalypse,  in  Bethel's 
Death  the  Avenger  and  Death  the  Friend, — and  more  nobly 
in  his  grand  design  of  Barbarossa  entering  the  grave  of 
Charlemagne  ; — carefully,  I  say,  you  must  distinguish  this 
natural  and  lofty  phase  of  visionary  terror,  from  the  coarse 
delight  in  mere  pain  and  crisis  of  danger,  which,  in  our  infidel 
art  and  literature  for  the  young,  fills  our  books  of  travel  with 
pictures  of  alligators  swallowing  children,  hippopotami  up- 
setting canoes  full  of  savages,  bears  on  their  hind-legs  doing 
battle  with  northern  navigators,  avalanches  burying  Alpine 
villages,  and  the  like,  as  the  principal  attractions  of  the  vol- 
ume ;  not,  in  the  plurality  of  cases,  without  vileness  of  exag- 
geration which  amounts  to  misleading  falsehood  —  unless 
happily  pushed  to  the  point  where  mischief  is  extinguished 
by  absurdity.  In  Strahan's  '  Magazine  for  the  Youth  of  all 
Ages,'  for  June,  1879,  at  page  328,  you  will  find  it  related,  in 
a  story  proposed  for  instruction  in  scientific  natural  history, 


310 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


that  "  the  fugitives  saw  an  enormous  elephant  cross  the  clear- 
ing, surrounded  by  ten  tigers,  some  clinging  to  its  back,  and 
others  keeping  alongside." 

I  may  in  this  place,  I  think,  best  introduce — though  again 
parenthetically — the  suggestion  of  a  healthy  field  for  the  la- 
bouring scientific  fancy  which  remains  yet  unexhausted,  and 
I  believe  inexhaustible, — that  of  the  fable,  expanded  into  nar- 
rative, which  gives  a  true  account  of  the  life  of  animals,  sup- 
posing them  to  be  endowed  with  human  intelligence,  directed 
to  the  interests  of  their  animal  life.  I  said  just  now  that  I 
had  been  brought  up  upon  fairy  legends,  but  I  must  gratefully 
include,  under  the  general  title  of  these,  the  stories  in  '  Even- 
ings at  Home '  of  The  Transmigrations  of  Indur,  The  Discon- 
tented Squirrel,  The  Travelled  Ant,  The  Cat  and  her  Children, 
and  Little  Fido ;  and  with  these,  one  now  quite  lost,  but 
which  I  am  minded  soon  to  reprint  for  my  younger  pupils, — 
The  History  of  a  Field-Mouse,  which  in  its  pretty  detail  is  no 
less  amusing,  and  much  more  natural,  than  the  town  and 
country  mice  of  Horace  and  Pope, — classic,  in  the  best  sense, 
though  these  will  always  be. 

There  is  the  more  need  that  some  true  and  pure  examples 
of  fable  in  this  kind  should  be  put  within  the  reach  of  chil- 
dren, because  the  wild  efforts  of  weak  writers  to  increase  their 
incomes  at  Christmas,  and  the  unscrupulous  encouragement  of 
them  by  competing  booksellers,  fill  our  nurseries  with  forms 
of  rubbish  which  are  on  the  one  side  destructive  of  the  mean- 
ing of  all  ancient  tradition,  and  on  the  other,  reckless  of  every 
really  interesting  truth  in  exact  natural  history.  Only  the 
other  day,  in  examining  the  mixed  contents  of  a  somewhat 
capacious  nursery  bookcase,  the  first  volume  I  opened  was  a 
fairy  tale  in  which  the  benevolent  and  moral  fairy  drove  a 
"  matchless  pair  of  white  cockatrices."  I  might  take  up  all 
the  time  yet  left  for  this  lecture  in  exposing  to  you  the  min- 
gled folly  and  mischief  in  those  few  words  ; — the  pandering 
to  the  first  notion  of  vulgar  children  that  all  glory  consists  in 
driving  a  matchless  pair  of  something  or  other, — and  the  im- 
plied ignorance  in  which  only  such  a  book  could  be  presented 
to  any  children,  of  the  most  solemn  of  scriptural  promises  to 


FAIRY  LAND. 


an 


them, — "  the  weaned  child  shall  lay  his  hand  on  the  cocka- 
trice '  den." 

And  the  next  book  I  examined  was  a  series  of  stories  im- 
ported from  Japan,*  most  of  them  simply  sanguinary  and 
loathsome,  but  one  or  two  pretending  to  be  zoological — as, 
for  instance,  that  of  the  Battle  of  the  Ape  and  the  Crab,  of 
which  it  is  said  in  the  introduction  that  "  men  should  lay  it 
up  in  their  hearts,  and  teach  it  as  a  profitable  lesson  to  their 
children."  In  the  opening  of  this  profitable  story,  the  crab 
plants  a  " persimmon  seed  in  his  garden"  (the  reader  is  not 
informed  what  manner  of  fruit  the  persimmon  may  be),  and 
wratches  the  growth  of  the  tree  which  springs  from  it  with 
great  delight ;  being,  we  are  told  in  another  paragraph,  "  a 
simple-minded  creature." 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  conception  of  character  in  the 
great  zodiacal  crustacean  is  supposed  to  be  scientific  or  aesthet- 
ic,— but  I  hope  that  British  children  at  the  seaside  are  capa- 
ble of  inventing  somewhat  better  stories  of  crabs  for  them- 
selves ;  and  if  they  would  farther  know  the  foreign  manners 
of  the  sidelong-pacing  people,  let  me  ask  them  to  look  at  the 
account  given  by  Lord  George  Campbell,  in  his  '  Log  Letters 
from  the  Challenger/  of  his  landing  on  the  island  of  St.  Paul, 
and  of  the  manner  in  which  the  quite  unsophisticated  crabs  of 
that  locality  succeeded  first  in  stealing  his  fishbait,  and  then 
making  him  lose  his  temper,  to  a  degree  extremely  unbecom- 
ing in  a  British  nobleman.  They  will  not,  after  the  perusal  of 
that  piquant — or  perhaps  I  should  rather  say,  pincant, — nar- 
rative, be  disposed,  whatever  other  virtues  they  may  possess, 
to  ascribe  to  the  obliquitous  nation  that  of  simplicity  of  mind. 

I  have  no  time  to  dwell  longer  on  the  existing  fallacies  in 
the  representation  either  of  the  fairy  or  the  animal  kingdoms. 
I  must  pass  to  the  happier  duty  of  returning  thanks  for  the  truth 
with  which  our  living  painters  have  drawn  for  us  the  lovely 
dynasty  of  little  creatures,  about  whose  reality  there  can  be  no 
doubt  ;  and  who  are  at  once  the  most  powerful  of  fairies,  and 
the  most  amusing,  if  not  always  the  most  sagacious  !  of  animals. 

In  my  last  lecture,  I  noted  to  you,  though  only  parenthetic 
*Macmillan)  1871. 


312 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


cally,  the  singular  defect  in  Greek  art,  that  it  never  gives  you 
any  conception  of  Greek  children.  Neither — up  to  the  thir- 
teenth century— does  Gothic  art  give  you  any  conception  of 
Gothic  children  ;  for,  until  the  thirteenth  century,  the  Goth 
was  not  perfectly  Christianized,  and  still  thought  only  of  the 
strength  of  humanity  as  admirable  in  battle  or  venerable  in 
judgment,  but  not  as  dutiful  in  peace,  nor  happy  in  simplicity. 

But  from  the  moment  when  the  spirit  of  Christianity  had 
been  entirely  interpreted  to  the  Western  races,  the  sanctity  of 
womanhood  worshipped  in  the  Madonna,  and  the  sanctity  of 
childhood  in  unity  with  that  of  Christ,  became  the  light  of 
every  honest  hearth,  and  the  joy  of  every  pure  and  chastened 
soul.  Yet  the  traditions  of  art-subject,  and  the  vices  of  luxury 
which  developed  themselves  in  the  following  (fourteenth)  cent- 
ury, prevented  the  manifestation  of  this  new  force  in  domes- 
tic life  for  two  centuries  more  ;  and  then  at  last  in  the  child 
angels  of  Luca,  Mino  of  Fesole,  Luini,  Angelico,  Perugino, 
and  the  first  days  of  Raphael,  it  expressed  itself  as  the  one 
pure  and  sacred  passion  which  protected  Christendom  from 
the  ruin  of  the  Renaissance. 

Nor  has  it  since  failed  ;  and  whatever  disgrace  or  blame  ob- 
scured the  conception  of  the  later  Flemish  and  incipient  Eng- 
lish schools,  the  children,  whether  in  the  pictures  of  Rubens, 
Rembrandt,  Vandyke,  or  Sir  Joshua,  were  always  beautiful. 
An  extremely  dark  period  indeed  follows,  leading  to  and  per- 
sisting in  the  French  Revolution,  and  issuing  in  the  merciless 
manufacturing  fury,  which  to-day  grinds  children  to  dust  be- 
tween millstones,  and  tears  them  to  pieces  on  engine-wheels, 
—against  which  rises  round  us,  Heaven  be  thanked,  again  the 
protest  and  the  power  of  Christianity,  restoring  the  fields  of 
the  quiet  earth  to  the  steps  of  her  infancy. 

In  Germany,  this  protest,  I  believe,  began  with — it  is  at  all 
events  perfectly  represented  by — the  Ludwig  Richter  I  have 
so  often  named  ;  in  France,  with  Edward  Frere,  whose  pict- 
ures of  children  are  of  quite  immortal  beauty.  But  in  Eng- 
land it  was  long  repressed  by  the  terrible  action  of  our  wealth, 
compelling  our  painters  to  represent  the  children  of  the  poor 
as  in  wickedness  or  misery.    It  is  one  of  the  most  terrific  facts 


FAIRY  LAND. 


313 


in  all  the  history  of  British  art  that  Bewick  never  draws  chil- 
dren but  in  mischief. 

I  am  not  able  to  say  with  whom,  in  Britain,  the  reaction 
first  begins, — but  certainly  not  in  painting  until  after  Willrie, 
in  all  whose  works  there  is  not  a  single  example  of  a  beautiful 
Scottish  boy  or  girl.  I  imagine  in  literature,  we  may  take 
the  '  Cotter's  Saturday  Night '  and  the  6  toddlin'  wee  things  ? 
as  the  real  beginning  of  child  benediction  ;  and  I  am  disposed 
to  assign  in  England  much  value  to  the  widely  felt,  though 
little  acknowledged,  influence  of  an  authoress  now  forgotten 
— Mary  Russell  Mitford.  Her  village  children  in  the  Low- 
lands— in  the  Highlands,  the  Lucy  Grays  and  Alice  Fells  of 
Wordsworth— brought  back  to  us  the  hues  of  Fairy  Land  ; 
and  although  long  by  Academic  art  denied  or  resisted,  at  last 
the  charm  is  felt  in  London  itself, — on  pilgrimage  in  whose 
suburbs  you  find  the  Little  Nells  and  boy  David  Copper- 
fields  ;  and  in  the  heart  of  it,  Kit's  baby  brother  at  Astley's, 
indenting  his  cheek  with  an  oyster-shell  to  the  admiration  of 
all  beholders  ;  till  at  last,  bursting  out  like  one  of  the  sweet 
Surrey  fountains,  all  dazzling  and  pure,  you  have  the  radiance 
and  innocence  or  reinstated  infant  divinity  showered  again 
among  the  flowers  of  English  meadows  by  Mrs.  Allingham 
and  Kate  GreenawTay. 

It  has  chanced  strangely,  that  every  one  of  the  artists  to 
whom  in  these  lectures  I  wished  chiefly  to  direct  your 
thoughts,  has  been  insuniciently,  or  even  disadvantageously, 
represented  by  his  work  in  the  exhibitions  of  the  season.  But 
chiefly  I  have  been  disappointed  in  finding  no  drawing  of  the 
least  interest  by  Mrs.  AJlingham  in  the  room  of  the  Old 
Water-colour  Society.  And  let  me  say-,  in  passing,  that  none 
of  these  new  splendours  and  spaces  of  show  galleries,  with  at- 
tached restaurants  to  support  the  cockney  constitution  under 
the  trial  of  getting  from  one  end  of  them  to  the  other,  will  in 
the  least  make  up  to  the  real  art-loving  public  for  the  loss  of 
the  goodfellowship  of  our  old  societies,  every  member  of 
which  sent  everything  he  had  done  best  in  the  year  into  the 
room,  for  the  May  meetings  ;  shone  with  his  debited  measure 
of  admiration  in  his  accustomed  corner  ;  supported  his  asso« 


314 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


ciates  without  eclipsing  them  ;  supplied  his  customers  with" 
out  impoverishing  them  ;  and  was  permitted  to  sell  a  picture 
to  his  patron  or  his  friend,  without  paying  fifty  guineas  com- 
mission on  the  business  to  a  dealer. 

Howsoever  it  may  have  chanced,  Mrs.  Allingham  has  noth- 
ing of  importance  in  the  water-colour  room ;  and  I  am  even 
sorrowfully  compelled  to  express  my  regret  that  she  should 
have  spent  unavailing  pains  in  finishing  single  heads,  which 
are  at  the  best  uninteresting  miniatures,  instead  of  fulfilling 
her  true  gift,  and  doing  what  (in  Miss  Alexander's  words) 
'  the  Lord  made  her  for  • — in  representing  the  gesture,  char- 
acter, and  humour  of  charming  children  in  country  land- 
scapes. Her 'Tea  Party/ in  last  year's  exhibition,  with  the 
little  girl  giving  her  doll  its  bread  and  milk,  and  taking  care 
that  she  supped  it  with  propriety,  may  be  named  as  a  most 
lovely  example  of  her  feeling  and  her  art ;  and  the  drawing 
which  some  years  ago  riveted,  and  ever  since  has  retained, 
the  public  admiration, — the  two  deliberate  housewives  in 
their  village  toyshop,  bent  on  domestic  utilities  and  econo- 
mies, and  proud  in  the  acquisition  of  two  flat  irons  for  a  far- 
thing,— has  become,  and  rightly,  a  classic  picture,  which  will 
have  its  place  among  the  memorable  things  in  the  art  of  our 
time,  when  many  of  its  loudly  trumpeted  magnificences  are 
remembered  no  more. 

I  must  not  in  this  place  omit  mention,  with  sincere  grati- 
tude, of  the  like  motives  in  the  paintings  of  Mr.  Birkett 
Foster ;  but  with  regret  that  in  too  equal,  yet  incomplete, 
realization  of  them,  mistaking,  in  many  instances,  mere  spotty 
execution  for  finish,  he  has  never  taken  the  high  position  that 
was  open  to  him  as  an  illustrator  of  rustic  life. 

And  I  am  grieved  to  omit  the  names  of  many  other  artists 
who  have  protested,  with  consistent  feeling,  against  the  misery 
entailed  on  the  poor  children  of  our  great  cities, — by  painting 
the  real  inheritance  of  childhood  in  the  meadows  and  fresh 
air.  But  the  graciousness  and  sentiment  of  them  all  is  enough 
represented  by  the  hitherto  undreamt-of,  and,  in  its  range, 
unrivalled,  fancy,  which  is  now  re-establishing  throughout 
gentle  Europe,  the  manners  and  customs  of  fairyland. 


FAIRY  LAND. 


315 


I  may  best  indicate  to  you  the  grasp  which  the  genius  of 
Miss  Kate  Green  away  has  taken  upon  the  spirit  of  foreign 
lands,  no  less  than  her  own,  by  translating  the  last  paragraph 
of  the  entirely  candid,  and  intimately  observant,  review  of 
modern  English  art,  given  by  Monsieur  Ernest  Chesneau,  in  his 
small  volume,  '  La  Peinture  Anglaise,'  of  which  I  will  only  at 
present  say,  that  any  of  my  pupils  who  read  French  with 
practice  enough  to  recognize  the  finesse  of  it  in  exact  expres- 
sion, may  not  only  accept  his  criticism  as  my  own,  but  will 
find  it  often  more  careful  than  mine,  and  nearly  always  better 
expressed  ;  because  French  is  essentially  a  critical  language, 
and  can  say  things  in  a  sentence  which  it  would  take  half  a 
page  of  English  to  explain. 

He  gives  first  a  quite  lovely  passage  (too  long  to  introduce 
now)  upon  the  gentleness  of  the  satire  of  John  Leech,  as 
opposed  to  the  bitter  malignity  of  former  caricature.  Then 
he  goes  on  :  "The  great  softening  of  the  English  mind,  so 
manifest  already  in  John  Leech,  shows  itself  in  a  decisive 
manner  by  the  enthusiasm  with  which  the  public  have  lately 
received  the  designs  of  Mr.  Walter  Crane,  Mr.  Caldecott,  and 
Miss  Kate  Greenaway.  The  two  first  named  artists  began  by 
addressing  to  children  the  stories  of  Perrault  and  of  the 
Arabian  Nights,  translated  and  adorned  for  them  in  a  dazzling 
manner  ;  and,  in  the  works  of  all  these  three  artists,  landscape 
plays  an  important  part ;— familiar  landscape,  very  English, 
interpreted  with  a  '  bonhomie  savante  '  "  (no  translating  that), 
"spiritual,  decorative  in  the  rarest  taste, — strange  and  precious 
adaptation  of  Etruscan  art,  Flemish  and  Japanese,  reaching, 
together  with  the  perfect  interpretation  of  nature,  to  incom- 
parable chords  of  colour  harmony.  These  powers  are  found 
in  the  work  of  the  three,  but  Miss  Greenaway,  with  a  profound 
sentiment  of  love  for  children,  puts  the  child  alone  on  the 
scene,  companions  him  in  his  own  solitudes,  and  shows  the 
infantine  nature  in  all  its  naivete,  its  gaucherie,  its  touching 
grace,  its  shy  alarm,  its  discoveries,  ravishments,  embarrass- 
ments, and  victories ;  the  stumblings  of  it  in  wintry  ways,  the 
enchanted  smiles  of  its  spring  time,  and  all  the  history  of  its 
fond  heart  and  guiltless  egoism. 


310 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


"From  the  honest  but  fierce  laugh  of  the  coarse  Saxon, 
William  Hogarth,  to  the  delicious  smile  of  Kate  Greenaway, 
there  has  passed  a  century  and  a  half.  Is  it  the  same  people 
which  applauds  to-day  the  sweet  genius  and  tender  malices  of 
the  one,  and  which  applauded  the  bitter  genius  and  slaughter- 
ous satire  of  the  other  ?  After  all,  that  is  possible, — the  hatred 
of  vice  is  only  another  manifestation  of  the  love  of  innocence." 

Thus  far  M.  Chesneau — and  I  venture  only  to  take  up  the 
admirable  passage  at  a  question  I  did  not  translate  :  "  Ira-t- 
on  au  dela,  fera-t-on  mieux  encore?" — and  to  answer  joyfully, 
Yes,  if  you  choose  ;  you,  the  British  public,  to  encourage  the 
artist  in  doing  the  best  she  can  for  you.  She  will,  if  you  will 
receive  it  when  she  does. 

I  have  brought  with  me  to-day  in  the  first  place  some  ex- 
amples of  her  pencil  sketches  in  primary  design.  These  in 
general  the  public  cannot  see,  and  these,  as  is  always  the  case 
with  the  finest  imaginative  work,  contain  the  best  essence  of 
it, — qualities  never  afterwards  to  be  recovered,  and  expressed 
with  the  best  of  all  sensitive  instruments,  the  pencil  point. 

You  have  here,  for  consummate  example,  a  dance  of  fairies 
under  a  mushroom,  which  she  did  under  challenge  to  show 
me  what  fairies  were  like.  "  They'll  be  very  like  children," 
she  said  ;  I  answered  that  I  didn't  mind,  and  should  like  to 
see  them,  all  the  same  ; — so  here  they  are,  with  a  dance,  also, 
of  two  girlies,  outside  of  a  mushroom  ;  and  I  don't  know 
whether  the  elfins  or  girls  are  fairyfootedest :  and  one  or  two 
more  subjects,  which  you  may  find  out ; — but,  in  all,  you  will 
see  that  the  line  is  ineffably  tender  and  delicate,  and  can't  in 
the  least  be  represented  by  the  lines  of  a  woodcut.  But  I 
have  long  since  shown  you  the  power  of  line  engraving  as  it 
was  first  used  in  Florence  ;  and  if  you  choose,  you  may  far  re- 
cover the  declining  energies  of  line  engraving  in  England,  by 
encouraging  its  use  in  the  multiplication,  whether  of  these,  or 
of  Turner  outlines,  or  of  old  Florentine  silver  point  outlines, 
no  otherwise  to  be  possessed  by  you.  I  have  given  you  one 
example  of  what  is  possible  in  Mr.  Bolfe's  engraving  of  Ida  ; 
and,  if  all  goes  well,  before  the  autumn  fairy  rings  are  traced, 
you  shall  see  some  fairy  Idas  caught  flying. 


FAIRY  LAND. 


317 


So  far  of  pure  outline.  Next,  for  the  enrichment  of  it  by 
colour.  Monsieur  Chesneau  doubts  if  the  charm  of  Miss 
Greenaway's  work  can  be  carried  farther.  I  answer,  with  se- 
curity,— yes,  very  much  farther,  and  that  in  two  directions  : 
first,  in  her  own  method  of  design  ;  and  secondly,  the  manner 
of  its  representation  in  printing. 

First,  her  own  design  has  been  greatly  restricted  by  being 
too  ornamental,  or,  in  your  modern  phrase  decorative  ;  con- 
tracted into  any  corner  of  a  Christmas  card,  or  stretched  like 
an  elastic  band  round  the  edges  of  an  almanack.  Now,  her 
art  is  much  too  good  to  be  used  merely  for  illumination  ;  it  is 
essentially  and  perfectly  that  of  true  colour-picture,  and  that 
the  most  naive  and  delightful  manner  of  picture,  because,  on 
the  simplest  terms,  it  comes  nearest  reality.  No  end  of  mis- 
chief has  been  done  to  modern  art  by  the  habit  of  running 
semi-pictorial  illustration  round  the  margins  of  ornamental 
volumes,  and  Miss  Greenaway  has  been  wasting  her  strength 
too  sorrowfully  in  making  the  edges  of  her  little  birthday 
books,  and  the  like,  glitter  with  unregarded  gold,  whereas 
her  power  should  be  concentrated  in  the  direct  illustration  of 
connected  story,  and  her  pictures  should  be  made  complete 
on  the  page,  and  far  more  realistic  than  decorative.  There  is 
no  charm  so  enduring  as  that  of  the  real  representation  of  any 
given  scene  ;  her  present  designs  are  like  living  flowers  flat- 
tened to  go  into  an  herbarium,  and  sometimes  too  pretty  to 
be  believed.  We  must  ask  her  for  more  descriptive  reality, 
for  more  convincing  simplicity,  and  we  must  get  her  to  or- 
ganize a  school  of  colourists  by  hand,  who  can  absolutely  fac- 
simile her  own  first  drawing. 

This  is  the  second  matter  on  which  I  have  to  insist.  I 
bring  with  me  to-day  twelve  of  her  original  drawings,  and 
have  mounted  beside  them,  good  impressions  of  the  published 
prints. 

I  may  heartily  congratulate  both  the  publishers  and  posses- 
sors of  the  book  on  the  excellence  of  these  ;  yet  if  you  exam- 
ine them  closely,  you  will  find  that  the  colour  blocks  of  the 
print  sometimes  slip  a  little  aside,  so  as  to  lose  the  precision 
of  the  drawing  in  important  places ;  and  in  many  other  re- 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


spects  better  can  be  done,  in  at  least  a  certain  number  of 
chosen  copies.  I  must  not,  however,  detain  you  to-day  by 
entering  into  particulars  in  this  matter.  I  am  content  to  ask 
your  sympathy  in  the  endeavour,  if  I  can  prevail  on  the  artist 
to  undertake  it. 

Only  with  respect  to  this  and  every  other  question  of 
method  in  engraving,  observe  farther  that  all  the  drawings  I 
bring  you  to-day  agree  in  one  thing, — minuteness  and  deli- 
cacy of  touch  carried  to  its  utmost  limit,  visible  in  its  perfect- 
ness  to  the  eyes  of  youth,  but  neither  executed  with  a  magni- 
fying glass,  nor,  except  to  aged  eyes,  needing  one.  Even  I, 
at  sixty-four,  can  see  the  essential  qualities  of  the  work  with- 
out spectacles  ;  though  only  the  youngest  of  my  friends  here 
can  see,  for  instance,  Kate's  fairy  dance,  perfectly,  but  they 
can,  with  their  own  bright"  eyes. 

And  now  please  note  this,  for  an  entirely  general  law,  again 
and  again  reiterated  by  me  for  many  a  }^ear.  All  great  art  is 
delicate,  and  fine  to  the  uttermost.  Wherever  there  is  blot- 
ting, or  daubing,  or  dashing,  there  is  weakness,  at  least ; 
probably,  affectation  ;  certainly,  bluntness  of  feeling.  But, 
all  delicacy  which  is  rightly  pleasing  to  the  human  mind  is 
addressed  to  the  unaided  human  sight,  not  to  microscopic  help 
or  mediation. 

And  now  generalize  that  law  farther.  As  all  noble  sight  is 
with  the  eyes  that  God  has  given  you,  so  all  noble  motion 
is  with  the  limbs  God  has  balanced  for  you,  and  all  noble 
strength  with  the  arms  He  has  knit.  Though  you  should  put 
electric  coils  into  your  high  heels,  and  make  spring-heeled 
Jacks  and  Gills  of  yourselves,  you  will  never  dance,  so,  as  you 
could  barefoot.  Though  you  could  have  machines  that  would 
swing  a  ship  of  war  into  the  sea,  and  drive  a  railway  train 
through  a  rock,  all  divine  strength  is  still  the  strength  of 
Herakles,  a  man's  wrestle,  and  a  man's  blow. 

There  are  two  other  points  I  must  try  to  enforce  in  closing, 
very  clearly.  " Landscape,"  says  M.  Chesneau,  "takes  great 
part  in  these  lovely  designs."  He  does  not  say  of  what  kind; 
may  I  ask  you  to  look,  for  yourselves,  and  think  ? 

There  are  no  railroads  in  it,  to  carry  the  children  away 


FAIRY  LAND. 


319 


with,  are  there  ?  no  tunnel  or  pit  mouths  to  swallow  them  up, 
no  league-long  viaducts — no  blinkered  iron  bridges  ?  There 
are  only  winding  brooks,  wooden  foot-bridges,  and  grassy  hills 
without  any  holes  cut  into  them  ! 

Again, — there  are  no  parks,  no  gentlemen's  seats  with  at- 
tached stables  and  offices  ! — no  rows  of  model  lodging  houses! 
no  charitable  institutions  !  !  It  seems  as  if  none  of  these  things 
which  the  English  mind  now  rages  after,  possess  any  attraction 
whatever  for  this  unimpressionable  person.  She  is  a  graceful 
Gallio — Gallia  gratia  plena,  and  cares  for  none  of  those  things. 

And  more  wonderful  still, — there  are  no  gasworks !  no 
waterworks,  no  mowing  machines,  no  sewing  machines,  no  tel- 
egraph poles,  no  vestige,  in  fact,  of  science,  civilization,  eco- 
nomical arrangements,  or  commercial  enterprise  ! !  ! 

Would  you  wish  me,  with  professorial  authority,  to  advise 
her  that  her  conceptions  belong  to  the  dark  ages,  and  must 
be  reared  on  a  new  foundation  ?  Or  is  it,  on  the  other  hand, 
recommendably  conceivable  by  you,  that  perhaps  the  world 
we  truly  live  in  may  not  be  quite  so  changeable  as  you  have 
thought  it ; — that  all  the  gold  and  silver  you  can  dig  out  of 
the  earth  are  not  worth  the  kingcups  and  the  daisies  she  gave 
you  of  her  grace  ;  and  that  all  the  fury,  and  the  flutter, 
and  the  wonder,  and  the  wistfulness,  of  your  lives,  will  never 
discover  for  you  any  other  than  the  ancient  blessing  :  u  He 
maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures,  He  leadeth  me  be- 
side the  still  waters,  He  restoreth  my  soul "  ? 

Yet  one  word  more.  Observe  that  what  this  unimpression- 
able person  does  draw,  she  draws  as  like  it  as  she  can.  It  is 
true  that  the  combination  or  composition  of  things  is  not 
what  you  can  see  every  day.  You  can't  every  day,  for  in- 
stance, see  a  baby  thrown  into  a  basket  of  roses ;  but  when 
she  has  once  pleasantly  invented  that  arrangement  for  you, 
baby  is  as  like  baby,  and  rose  as  like  rose,  as  she  can  possibly 
draw  them.  And  the  beauty  of  them  is  in  being  like.  They 
are  blissful,  just  in  the  degree  that  they  are  natural ;  and  the 
fairyland  she  creates  for  you  is  not  beyond  the  sky  nor  be- 
neath the  sea,  but  nigh  you,  even  at  your  doors.  She  does 
but  show  you  how  to  see  it,  and  how  to  cherish. 


320 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


Long  since  I  told  you  this  great  law  of  noble  imagination. 
It  does  not  create,  it  does  not  even  adorn,  it  does  but  reveal, 
the  treasures  to  be  possessed  by  the  spirit.  I  told  you  this 
of  the  work  of  the  great  painter  whom,  in  that  day,  everyone 
accused  of  representing  only  the  fantastic  and  the  impossible. 
I  said  forty  years  ago,  and  say  at  this  instant,  more  solemnly, 
411  his  magic  is  in  his  truth. 

I  show  you,  to-day,  a  beautiful  copy  made  for  me  by  Mr. 
Macdonald,  of  the  drawing  which,  of  all  the  Turners  I  gave 
you,  I  miss  the  most.  I  never  thought  it  could  have  been 
copied  at  all,  and  have  received  from  Mr.  Macdonald,  in  this 
lovely  rendering  of  it,  as  much  a  lesson  as  a  consolation. 
For  my  purpose  to-da}^  it  is  just  as  good  as  if  I  had  brought 
the  drawing  itself. 

It  is  one  of  the  Loire  series,  which  the  engravers  could  not 
attempt,  because  it  was  too  lovely  ;  or  would  not  attempt,  be- 
cause there  was,  to  their  notion,  nothing  in  it.  It  is  only  a 
coteau,  scarce  a  hundred  feet  above  the  river,  nothing  like  so 
high  as  the  Thames  banks  between  here  and  Reading, — only 
a  coteau,  and  a  recess  of  calm  water,  and  a  breath  of  mist, 
and  a  ray  of  sunset.  The  simplest  things,  the  frequentest, 
the  dearest ;  things  that  you  may  see  any  summer  evening 
by  a  thousand  thousand  streams  among  the  low  hills  of  old 
familiar  lands.  Love  them,  and  see  them  rightly, — Andes  and 
Caucasus,  Amazon  and  Indus,  can  give  you  no  more. 

The  danger  imminent  on  you  is  the  destruction  of  what  you 
ham.  I  walked  yesterday  afternoon  round  St.  John's  gar- 
dens, and  found  them,  as  they  always  are  in  spring  time, 
almost  an  ideal  of  earthly  Paradise, — the  St.  John's  students 
also  disporting  themselves  therein  in  games  preparatory  to 
the  advent  of  the  true  fairies  of  Commemoration.  But,  the 
afternoon  before,  I  had  walked  down  St.  John's  Road,  and,  on 
emerging  therefrom  to  cross  the  railway,  found  on  my  left 
hand  a  piece  of  waste  ground,  extremely  characteristic  of 
that  with  which  we  now  always  adorn  the  suburbs  of  our 
cities,  and  of  which  it  can  only  be  said  that  no  demons  could 
contrive,  under  the  earth,  a  more  uncomfortable  and  abomina- 
ble place  of  misery  for  the  condemned  souls  of  dirty  people, 


THE  FIRESIDE. 


321 


than  Oxford  thus  allows  the  western  light  to  shine  upon — 
'  nel  aer  dolce,  che  dal  sol  s'allegra.'  For  many  a  year  I  have 
now  been  telling  you,  and  in  the  final  words  of  this  first  course 
of  lectures  in  which  I  have  been  permitted  again  to  resume 
work  among  you,  let  me  tell  you  yet  once  more,  and  if  possible, 
more  vehemently,  that  neither  sound  art,  policy,  nor  religion, 
can  exist  in  England,  until,  neglecting,  if  it  must  be,  your 
own  pleasure  gardens  and  pleasure  chambers,  you  resolve 
that  the  streets  which  are  the  habitation  of  the  poor,  and  the 
fields  which  are  the  playgrounds  of  their  children,  shall  be 
again  restored  to  the  rule  of  the  spirits,  whosoever  they  are 
in  earth,  and  heaven,  that  ordain,  and  reward,  with  constant 
and  conscious  felicity,  all  that  is  decent  and  orderly,  beautiful 
and  pure. 

LECTURE  V. 

The  Fireside. 

JOHN  LEECH  AND  JOHN  TENNIEL. 

The  outlines  of  the  schools  of  our  National  Art  which  I  at- 
tempted in  the  four  lectures  given  last  spring,  had  led  us  to 
the  point  where  the,  to  us  chiefly  important,  and,  it  may  per- 
haps be  said,  temporarily,  all  important  questions  respecting 
the  uses  of  art  in  popular  education,  were  introduced  to  us  by 
the  beautiful  drawings  of  Miss  Alexander  and  Miss  Greenaway. 
But  these  drawings,  in  their  dignified  and  delicate,  often  re- 
served, and  sometimes  severe  characters,  address  themselves 
to  a  circle,  which  however  large, — or  even  (I  say  it  with  thank- 
fulness) practically  infinite,  yet  consists  exclusively  of  persons 
of  already  cultivated  sensibilities,  and  more  or  less  gentle  and 
serious  temper.  The  interests  of  general  education  compel 
our  reference  to  a  class  entirely  beneath  these,  or  at  least  dis- 
tinct from  them  ;  and  our  consideration  of  art-methods  to 
which  the  conditions  of  cheapness,  and  rapidity  of  multiplica- 
tion, are  absolutely  essential. 

I  have  stated,  and  it  is  one  of  the  paradoxes  of  my  political 


322 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


economy  which  you  will  find  on  examination  to  be  the  expres- 
sion of  a  final  truth,  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  just  or 
real  cheapness,  but  that  all  things  have  their  necessary  price  : 
and  that  you  can  no  more  obtain  them  for  less  than  that 
price,  than  you  can  alter  the  course  of  the  earth.  When  you 
obtain  anything  yourself  for  half-price,  somebody  else  must 
always  have  paid  the  other  half.  But,  in  the  sense  either 
of  having  cost  less  labour,  or  of  being  the  productions  of 
less  rare  genius,  there  are,  of  course,  some  kinds  of  art  more 
generally  attainable  than  others  ;  and,  of  these,  the  kinds 
which  depend  on  the  use  of  the  simplest  means  are  also  those 
which  are  calculated  to  have  most  influence  over  the  sim- 
plest minds.  The  disciplined  qualities  of  line-engraving  will 
scarcely  be  relished,  and  often  must  even  pass  unperceived, 
by  an  uneducated  or  careless  observer  ;  but  the  attention  of  a 
child  may  be  excited,  and  the  apathy  of  a  clown  overcome,  by 
the  blunt  lines  of  a  vigorous  woodcut. 

To  my  own  mind,  there  is  no  more  beautiful  proof  of  be- 
nevolent design  in  the  creation  of  the  earth,  than  the  exact 
adaptation  of  its  materials  to  the  art-power  of  man.  The  plas- 
ticity and  constancy  under  fire  of  clay  ;  the  ductility  and  fusi- 
bility of  gold  and  iron  ;  .the  consistent  softness  of  marble  ; 
and  the  fibrous  toughness  of  wood,  are  in  each  material  car- 
ried to  the  exact  degree  which  renders  them  provocative  of 
skill  by  their  resistance,  and  full  of  reward  for  it  by  their 
compliance  :  so  that  the  delight  with  which,  after  sufficiently 
intimate  study  of  the  methods  of  manual  work,  the  student 
ought  to  regard  the  excellence  of  a  masterpiece,  is  never 
merely  the  admiration  of  difficulties  overcome,  but  the  sym- 
pathy, in  a  certain  sense,  both  with  the  enjoyment  of  the  work- 
man in  managing  a  substance  so  pliable  to  his  will,  and  with 
the  worthiness,  fitness,  and  obedience  of  the  material  itself, 
which  at  once  invites  his  authority,  and  rewards  his  conces- 
sions. 

But  of  all  the  various  instruments  of  his  life  and  genius, 
none  are  so  manifold  in  their  service  to  him  as  that  which  the 
forest  leaves  gather  every  summer  out  of  the  air  he  breathes. 
Think  of  the  use  of  it  in  house  and  furniture  alone.    I  have 


THE  FIRESIDE. 


323 


lived  in  marble  palaces,  and  under  frescoed  loggie,  but  have 
never  been  so  comfortable  in  either  as  in  the  clean  room  of 
an  old  Swiss  inn,  whose  walls  and  floor  were  of  plain  deal. 
You  will  find  also,  in  the  long  run,  that  none  of  your  modern 
aesthetic  upholstery  can  match,  for  comfort,  good  old  English 
oak  wainscot  ;  and  that  the  crystalline  magnificence  of  the 
marbles  of  Genoa  and  the  macigno  of  Florence  can  give  no  more 
pleasure  to  daily  life  than  the  carved  brackets  and  trefoiled 
gables  which  once  shaded  the  busy  and  merry  streets,  and 
lifted  the  chiming  carillons  above  them,  in  Kent  and  Picardy. 

As  a  material  of  sculpture,  wood  has  hitherto  been  em- 
ployed chiefly  by  the  less  cultivated  races  of  Europe  ;  and  we 
cannot  know  what  Orcagna  would  have  made  of  his  shrine,  or 
Ghiberti  of  his  gates,  if  they  had  worked  in  olive  wood  in- 
stead of  marble  and  bronze.  But  even  as  matters  now  stand, 
the  carving  of  the  pinnacled  stalls  in  our  northern  cathedrals, 
and  that  of  the  foliage  on  the  horizontal  beams  of  domestic 
architecture,  gave  rise  to  a  school  of  ornament  of  which  the 
proudest  edifices  of  the  sixteenth  century  are  only  the  trans- 
lation into  stone  ;  and  to  which  our  somewhat  dull  respect 
for  the  zigzags  and  dog-teeth  of  a  sterner  time  has  made  us 
alike  neglectful  and  unjust.* 

But  it  is  above  all  as  a  medium  of  engraving  that  the  easy 
submission  of  wood  to  the  edge  of  the  chisel, — I  will  use 
this  plain  word,  if  you  please,  instead  of  burin, — and  the  tough 
durability  of  its  grain,  have  made  it  so  widely  serviceable  to 
us  for  popular  pleasure  in  art ;  but  mischievous  also,  in  the 
degree  in  which  it  encourages  the  cheapest  and  vilest  modes 
of  design.  The  coarsest  scrawl  with  a  blunt  pen  can  be  re- 
produced on  a  wood-block  with  perfect  ease  by  the  clumsiest 
engraver  ;  and  there  are  tens  of  thousands  of  vulgar  artists 
who  can  scrawl  with  a  blunt  pen,  and  with  no  trouble  to  them- 
selves, something  that  will  amuse,  as  I  said,  a  child  or  a  clown. 
But  there  is  not  one  artist  in  ten  thousand  who  can  draw  even 
simple  objects  rightly  with  a  perfectly  pure  line  ;  when  such 
a  line  is  drawn,  only  an  extremely  skilful  engraver  can  repro- 

*  Compare  'Bible  of  Amiens,'  p.  14,  4 'aisles  of  aspen,  orchards  of 
apple,  clusters  of  vine," 


324 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


duce  it  on  wood  ;  when  reproduced,  it  is  liable  to  be  broken 
at  the  second  or  third  printing  ;  and  supposing  it  permanent, 
not  one  spectator  in  ten  thousand  would  care  for  it. 

There  is,  however,  another  temptation,  constant  in  the 
practice  of  wood-cutting,  which  has  been  peculiarly  harmful 
to  us  in  the  present  day.  The  action  of  the  chisel  on  wood, 
as  you  doubtless  are  aware,  is  to  produce  a  white  touch  on  a 
black  ground  ;  and  if  a  few  white  touches  can  be  so  distributed 
as  to  produce  any  kind  of  effect,  all  the  black  ground  becomes 
part  of  the  imagined  picture,  with  no  trouble  whatever  to  the 
workman  :  so  that  you  buy  in  your  cheap  magazine  a  picture, 
— say  four  inches  square,  or  sixteen  square  inches  of  surface, 
— in  the  whole  of  wThich  there  may  only  be  half  an  inch  of 
work.  Whereas,  in  line-engraving,  every  atom  of  the  shade 
has  to  be  worked  for,  and  that  with  extreme  care,  evenness 
and  dexterity  of  hand  ;  while  even  in  etching,  though  a  great 
quantity  of  the  shade  is  mere  blurr  and  scrabble  and  blotch,  a 
certain  quantity  of  real  care  and  skill  must  be  spent  in  cover- 
ing the  surface  at  first.  Whereas  the  common  woodcut  re- 
quires scarcely  more  trouble  than  a  schoolboy  takes  with  a 
scrawd  on  his  slate,  and  you  might  order  such  pictures  by  the 
cartload  from  Coniston  quarries,  with  only  a  clever  urchin  or 
two  to  put  the  chalk  on. 

But  the  mischief  of  the  woodcut,  considered  simply  as  a 
means  in  the  publisher's  hands  of  imposing  cheap  work  on 
the  pur  chaser,  is  trebled  by  its  morbid  power  of  expressing 
ideas  of  ugliness  or  terror.  While  no  entirely  beautiful  thing 
can  be  represented  in  a  woodcut,  every  form  of  vulgarity  or 
unpleasantness  can  be  given  to  the  life  ;  and  the  result  is, 
that,  especially  in  our  popular  scientific  books,  the  mere  effort 
to  be  amusing  and  attractive  leads  to  the  publication  of  every 
species  of  the  abominable.  No  microscope  can  teach  the  beauty 
of  a  statue,  nor  can  any  woodcut  represent  that  of  a  nobly 
bred  human  form  ;  but  only  last  term  we  saw  the  whole  Ash- 
molean  Society  held  in  a  trance  of  rapture  by  the  inexplicable 
decoration  of  the  posteriors  of  a  flea  ;  and  I  have  framed  for 
you  here,  around  a  page  of  the  scientific  journal  which  styles 
itself  '  Knowledge,'  a  collection  of  woodcuts  out  of  a  scientific 


THE  FIRESIDE. 


825 


survey  of  South  America,  presenting  collectively  to  you,  in 
designs  ignorantly  drawn  and  vilely  engraved,  yec  with  the 
peculiar  advantage  belonging  to  the  cheap  woodcut,  whatever, 
through  that  fourth  part  of  the  round  world,  from  Mexico  to 
Patagonia,  can  be  found  of  savage,  sordid,  vicious,  or  ridicu- 
lous in  humanity,  without  so  much  as  one  exceptional  indica- 
tion of  a  graceful  form,  a  true  instinct,  or  a  cultivable  capacity. 

The  second  frame  is  of  French  scientific  art,  and  still  more 
curiously  horrible.  I  have  cut  these  examples,  not  by  any 
means  the  ugliest,  out  of  'Les  Pourquoi  de  Mademoiselle 
Suzanne/  a  book  in  which  it  is  proposed  to  instruct  a  young- 
lady  of  eleven  or  twelve  years  old,  amusingly,  in  the  elements 
of  science. 

In  the  course  of  the  lively  initiation,  the  young  lady  has  the 
advantage  of  seeing  a  garde  champetre  struck  dead  by  light- 
ning ;  she  is  par  parenthese  entertained  with  the  history  and 
picture  of  the  suicide  of  the  cook  Vatel  ;  somebody's  heart, 
liver,  and  forearm  are  dissected  for  her  ;  all  the  phenomena 
of  nightmare  are  described  and  portrayed  ;  and  whatever 
spectres  of  monstrosity  can  be  conjured  into  the  sun,  the 
moon,  the  stars,  the  sky,  the  sea,  the  railway,  and  the  tele- 
graph, are  collected  into  black  company  by  the  cheap  en- 
graver. Black  eompairy  is  a  mild  word  :  you  will  find  the  right 
phrase  now  instinctively  adopted  by  the  very  persons  who  are 
most  charmed  by  these  new  modes  of  sensation.  In  the  '  Cent- 
ury ■  magazine  for  this  month,  the  reviewer  of  some  American 

landscape  of  this  class  tells  us  that  Mr.  ,  whoever  he  is, 

by  a  series  of  bands  of  black  and  red  paint,  has  succeeded 
in  entirely  reproducing  the  '  Demoniac  1  beauty  of  the  sunset. 

I  have  framed  these  French  cuts,  however,  chiefly  for  pur- 
poses of  illustration  in  my  last  lecture  of  this  year,  for  they 
show  you  in  perfect  abstract  all  the  wrong, — wrong  unques- 
tionably, whether  you  call  it  Demoniac,  Diabolic,  or  iEsthetic, 
— against  which  my  entire  teaching,  from  its  first  syllable  to 
this  day,  has  been  straight  antagonist.  Of  this,  as  I  have  said, 
in  my  terminal  address  :  the  first  frame  is  for  to-day  enough 
representation  of  ordinary  English  cheap- trade  woodcutting 
in  its  necessary  limitation  to  ugly  subject,  and  its  disrespect 


32G 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


for  the  very  quality  of  the  material  on  which  its  value  depends, 
elasticity.  There  is  this  great  difference  between  the  respect 
for  his  material  proper  to  a  workman  in  metal  or  marble,  and 
to  one  working  in  clay  or  wood,  that  the  former  has  to  exhibit 
the  actual  beauty  of  the  substance  itself,  but  the  latter  only 
its  special  capacity  of  answering  his  purpose.  A  sculptor  in 
marble  is  required  to  show  the  beauty  of  marble-surface,  a 
sculptor  in  gold  its  various  lustre,  a  worker  in  iron  its  ductile 
strength.  But  the  wood-cutter  has  not  to  exhibit  his  block, 
nor  the  engraver  his  copper-plate.  They  have  on]y  to  use  the 
relative  softness  and  rigidity  of  those  substances  to  receive 
and  multiply  the  lines  drawn  by  the  human  hand  ;  and  it  is 
not  the  least  an  admirable  quality  in  wood  that  it  is  capable 
of  printing  a  large  blot ;  but  an  entirely  admirable  one  that 
by  its  tough  elasticity  it  can  preserve  through  any  number  of 
impressions  the  distinctness  of  a  well  cut  line. 

Not  admirable,  I  say,  to  print  a  blot ;  but  to  print  a  pure 
line  unbroken,  and  an  intentionally  widened  space  or  spot  of 
darkness,  of  the  exact  shape  wanted.  In  my  former  lectures 
on  Wood  Engraving  I  did  not  enough  explain  this  quite  sep- 
arate virtue  of  the  material.  Neither  in  pencil  nor  pen  draw- 
ing, neither  in  engraving  nor  etching,  can  a  line  be  widened 
arbitrarily,  or  a  spot  enlarged  at  ease.  The  action  of  the 
moving  point  is  continuous  ;  you  can  increase  or  diminish 
the  line's  thickness  gradually,  but  not  by  starts  ;  you  must 
drive  your  plough-furrow,  or  let  your  pen  glide,  at  a  fixed 
rate  of  motion  ;  nor  can  you  afterwards  give  more  breadth  to 
the  pen  line  without  overcharging  the  ink,  nor  by  any  labour 
of  etching  tool  dig  out  a  cavity  of  shadow  such  as  the  wood 
engraver  leaves  in  an  instant. 

Hence,  the  methods  of  design  which  depend  on  irregularly 
expressive  shapes  of  black  touch,  belong  to  wood  exclusively ; 
and  the  examples  placed  formerly  in  your  school  from  Bewick's 
cuts  of  speckled  plumage,  and  Burgmaier's  heraldry  of  barred 
helmets  and  black  eagles,  were  intended  to  direct  your  atten- 
tion to  this  especially  intellectual  manner  of  work,  as  opposed 
to  modern  scribbling  and  hatching.  But  I  have  now  removed 
these  old-fashioned  prints,  (placing  them,  however,  in  always 


THE  FIRESIDE. 


327 


accessible  reserve,)  because  I  found  they  possessed  no  attrac- 
tion for  inexperienced  students,  and  I  think  it  better  to  explain 
the  qualities  of  execution  of  a  similar  kind,  though  otherwise 
directed,  which  are  to  be  found  in  the  designs  of  our  living 
masters, — addressed  to  existing  tastes, — and  occupied  with 
familiar  scenes. 

Although  I  have  headed  my  lecture  only  with  the  names  of 
Leech  and  Tenniel,  as  being  the  real  founders  of  'Punch,'  and 
by  far  the  greatest  of  its  illustrators,  both  in  force  of  art  and 
range  of  thought,  yet  in  the  precision  of  the  use  of  his  means, 
and  the  subtle  boldness  to  which  he  has  educated  the  inter- 
preters of  his  design,  Mr.  Du  Marnier  is  more  exemplary  than 
either  ;  and  I  have  therefore  had  enlarged  by  photography, — 
your  thanks  are  due  to  the  brother  of  Miss  Greenaway  for  the 
skill  with  which  the  proofs  have  been  produced, — for  first  ex- 
ample of  fine  wood-cutting,  the  heads  of  two  of  Mr.  Du  Maur- 
ier's  chief  heroines,  Mrs.  Ponsonby  de  Tomkyns,  and  Lady 
Midas,  in  the  great  scene  wiiere  Mrs.  Ponsonby  takes  on  her- 
self the  administration  of  Lady  Midas's  at  home. 

You  see  at  once  how  the  effect  in  both  depends  on  the 
coagulation  and  concretion  of  the  black  touches  into  masses 
relieved  only  by  interspersed  sparkling  grains  of  incised  light, 
presenting  the  realistic  and  vital  portraiture  of  both  ladies 
with  no  more  labour  than  would  occupy  the  draughtsman  but 
a  few  minutes,  and  the  engraver  perhaps  an  hour  or  two.  It 
is  true  that  the  features  of  the  elder  of  the  two  friends  might 
be  supposed  to  yield  themselves  without  difficulty  to  the  effect 
of  the  irregular  and  blunt  lines  which  are  employed  to  repro- 
duce them  ;  but  it  is  a  matter  of  no  small  wonderment  to  see 
the  delicate  profile  and  softly  rounded  features  of  the  younger 
lady  suggested  by  an  outline  which  must  have  been  drawn  in 
the  course  of  a  few  seconds,  and  by  some  eight  or  ten  firmly 
swept  parallel  pen  strokes  right  across  the  cheek. 

I  must  ask  you  especially  to  note  the  successful  result  of 
this  easy  method  of  obtaining  an  even  tint,  because  it  is  the 
proper,  and  the  inexorably  required,  method  of  shade  in 
classic  wood-engraving.  Recently,  very  remarkable  and  ad- 
mirable efforts  have  been  made  by  American  artists  to  repre- 


328 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


sent  flesh  tints  with  fine  textures  of  crossed  white  lines  and 
spots.  But  all  such  attempts  are  futile  ;  it  is  an  optical  law 
that  transparency  in  shadows  can  only  be  obtained  by  dark 
lines  with  white  spaces,  not  white  lines  with  dark  spaces. 
For  what  we  feel  to  be  transparency  in  any  colour  or  any 
atmosphere,  consists  in  the  penetration  of  darkness  by  a  more 
distant  light,  not  in  the  subduing  of  light  by  a  more  distant 
darkness.  A  snowstorm  seen  white  on  a  dark  sky  gives  us  no 
idea  of  transparency,  but  rain  between  us  and  a  rainbow  does  ; 
and  so  throughout  all  the  expedients  of  chiaroscuro  drawing 
and  painting,  transparent  effects  are  produced  by  laying  dark 
over  light,  and  opaque  by  laying  light  over  dark.  It  wrould 
be  tedious  in  a  lecture  to  press  these  technical  principles 
farther  ;  it  is  enough  that  I  should  state  the  general  law,  and 
its  practical  consequence,  that  no  wood-engraver  need  attempt 
to  copy  Correggio  or  Guido  ;  his  business  is  not  with  com- 
plexions, but  with  characters  ;  and  his  fame  is  to  rest,  not  on 
the  perfection  of  his  work,  but  on  its  propriety. 

I  must  in  the  next  place  ask  you  to  look  at  the  aphorisms 
given  as  an  art  catechism  in  the  second  chapter  of  the  c  Laws 
of  Fesole/  One  of  the  principal  of  these  gives  the  student, 
as  a  test  by  which  to  recognize  good  colour,  that  all  lite  white 
in  the  picture  is  precious,  and  all  the  black,  conspicuous  ;  not 
by  the  quantity  of  it,  but  the  impassable  difference  between 
it  and  all  the  coloured  spaces. 

The  rule  is  just  as  true  for  wood-cutting.  In  fine  examples 
of  it,  the  black  is  left  for  local  colour  only — for  dark  dresses, 
or  dark  patterns  on  light  ones,  dark  hair,  or  dark  eyes  ;  it  is 
never  left  for  general  gloom,  out  of  which  the  figures  emerge 
like  spectres. 

When,  however,  a  number  of  Mr.  Du  Maurier's  compositions 
are  seen  together,  and  compared  with  the  natural  simplicity 
and  aerial  space  of  Leech's,  they  will  be  felt  to  depend  on  this 
principle  too  absolutely  and  undisguisedly  ;  so  that  the  quar- 
terings  of  black  and  wdiite  in  them  sometimes  look  more  like 
a  chess-board  than  a  picture.  But  in  minor  and  careful  pas- 
sages, his  method  is  wholly  exemplary,  and  in  the  next  ex- 
ample I  enlarge  for  you, — Alderman  Sir  Robert  admiring 


THE  FIRESIDE. 


329 


the  portraits  of  the  Duchess  and  the  Colonel, — he  has  not 
only  shown  you  every  principle  of  wood-cutting,  but  abstracted 
for  you  also  the  laws  of  beauty,  whose  definite  and  every  year 
more  emphatic  assertion  in  the  pages  of  'Punch' is  the  ruling 
charm  and  most  legitimate  pride  of  the  immortal  periodical. 
Day  by  day  the  search  for  grotesque,  ludicrous,  or  loathsome 
subject  which  degraded  the  caricatures  in  its  original,  the 
'Charivari/  and  renders  the  dismally  comic  journals  of  Italy 
the  mere  plagues  and  cancers  of  the  State,  became,  in  our 
English  satirists,  an  earnest  comparison  of  the  things  which 
were  graceful  and  honourable,  with  those  which  were  grace- 
less and  dishonest,  in  modern  life.  Gradually  the  kind  and 
vivid  genius  of  John  Leech,  capable  in  its  brightness  of  find- 
ing pretty  jest  in  everything,  but  capable  in  its  tenderness 
also  of  rejoicing  in  the  beauty  of  everything,  softened  and 
illumined  with  its  loving  wit  the  entire  scope  of  English  social 
scene  ;  the  graver  power  of  Tenniel  brought  a  steady  tone 
and  law  of  morality  into  the  license  of  political  contention  ; 
and  finally  the  acute,  highly  trained,  and  accurately  physio- 
logical observation  of  Du  Maurier  traced  for  us,  to  its  true 
origin  in  vice  or  virtue,  every  order  of  expression  in  the  mixed 
circle  of  metropolitan  rank  and  wealth  :  and  has  done  so  with 
a  closeness  of  delineation  the  like  of  which  has  not  been  seen 
since  Holbein,  and  deserving  the  most  respectful  praise  in 
that,  whatever  power  of  satire  it  may  reach  by  the  selection 
and  assemblage  of  telling  points  of  character,  it  never  degen- 
erates into  caricature.  Nay,  the  terrific  force  of  blame  which 
he  obtains  by  collecting,  as  here  in  the  profile  of  the  Knight- 
Alderman,  features  separately  faultful  into  the  closest  focus, 
depends  on  the  very  fact  that  they  are  not  caricatured. 

Thus  far,  the  justice  of  the  most  careful  criticism  may  grate- 
fully ratify  the  applause  with  which  the  works  of  these  three 
artists  have  been  received  by  the  British  public.  Eapidly  I 
must  now  glance  at  the  conditions  of  defect  which  must  neces- 
sarily occur  in  art  primarily  intended  to  amuse  the  multitude, 
and  which  can  therefore  only  be  for  moments  serious,  and  by 
stealth  didactic. 

In  the  first  place,  you  must  be  clear  about  '  Punch's '  poli- 


330 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


tics.  He  is  a  polite  Whig,  with  a  sentimental  respect  for  the 
Crown,  and  a  practical  respect  for  property.  He  steadily 
flatters  Lord  Palmerston,  from  his  heart  adores  Mr.  Gladstone; 
steadily,  but  not  virulently,  caricatures  Mr.  Disraeli ;  violently 
and  virulently  castigates  assault  upon  property,  in  any  kind, 
and  holds  up  for  the  general  ideal  of  perfection,  to  be  aimed 
at  by  all  the  children  of  heaven  and  earth,  the  British  Hunt- 
ing Squire,  the  British  Colonel,  and  the  British  Sailor. 

Primarily,  the  British  Hunting  Squire,  with  his  family. 
The  most  beautiful  sketch  by  Leech  throughout  his  career, 
and,  on  the  wThole,  in  all  'Punch/  I  take  to  be  Miss  Alice  on 
her  father's  horse  ; — her,  with  three  or  four  more  young  Dians, 
I  had  put  in  one  frame  for  you,  but  found  they  ran  each  other 
too  hard, — being  in  each  case  typical  of  what  '  Punch  9  thinks 
every  young  lady  ought  to  be.  He  has  never  fairly  asked  how 
far  every  young  lady  can  be  like  them  ;  nor  has  he  in  a  single 
instance  endeavoured  to  represent  the  beauty  of  the  poor. 

On  the  contrary,  his  witness  to  their  degradation,  as  inevi- 
table in  the  circumstances  of  their  London  life,  is  constant,  and 
for  the  most  part,  contemptuous  ;  nor  can  I  more  sternly  en- 
force what  I  have  said  at  various  times  on  that  subject  than 
by  placing  permanently  in  your  schools  the  cruelly  true  de- 
sign of  Du  Maurier,  representing  the  London  mechanic  with 
his  family,  when  Mr.  Todeson  is  asked  to  amuse  'the  dear 
creatures '  at  Lady  Clara's  garden  tea. 

I  show  you  for  comparison  with  it,  to-day,  a  little  painting 
of  a  country  girl  of  our  Westmoreland  type,  which  I  have 
given  to  our  Coniston  children's  school,  to  show  our  hill  and 
vale-bred  lassies  that  God  will  take  care  of  their  good  looks 
for  them,  even  though  He  may  have  appointed  for  them  the 
toil  of  the  women  of  Sarepta  and  Samaria,  in  being  gatherers 
of  wood  and  drawers  of  water. 

I  cannot  say  how  far  with  didactic  purpose,  or  how  far  in 
carelessly  inevitable  satire,  '  Punch '  contrasts  with  the  disgrace 
of  street  poverty  the  beauties  of  the  London  drawing-room, 
— the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  great  upper  middle  class, 
exalted  by  the  wealth  of  the  capital,  and  of  the  larger  manu- 
facturing towns. 


THE  FIRESIDE, 


331 


These  are,  with  few  exceptions,  represented  either  as  receiv- 
ing company,  or  reclining  on  sofas  in  extremely  elegant  morn- 
ing dresses,  and  surrounded  by  charming  children,  with  whom 
they  are  usually  too  idle  to  play.  The  children  are  extremely 
intelligent,  and  often  exquisitely  pretty,  yet  dependent  for 
great  part  of  their  charm  on  the  dressing  of  their  back  hair, 
and  the  fitting  of  their  boots.  As  they  grow  up,  their  girlish 
beauty  is  more  and  more  fixed  in  an  expression  of  more  or 
less  self-satisfied  pride  and  practised  apathy.  There  is  no  ex- 
ample in  £  Punch '  of  a  girl  in  society  whose  face  expresses 
humility  or  enthusiasm — except  in  mistaken  directions  and 
foolish  degrees.  It  is  true  that  only  in  these  mistaken  feel- 
ings can  be  found  palpable  material  for  jest,  and  that  much 
of  £  Punch's '  satire  is  well  intended  and  just. 

It  seems  to  have  been  hitherto  impossible,  when  once  the 
zest  of  satirical  humour  is  felt,  even  by  so  kind  and  genial  a 
heart  as  John  Leech's,  to  restrain  it,  and  to  elevate  it  into  the 
playfulness  of  praise.  In  the  designs  of  Eichter,  of  which  I 
have  so  often  spoken,  among  scenes  of  domestic  beauty  and 
pathos,  he  continually  introduces  little  pieces  of  play, — such, 
for  instance,  as  that  of  the  design  of  the  1  Wide,  Wide  World,' 
in  which  the  very  young  puppy,  with  its  paws  on  its — rela- 
tively as  young — master's  shoulder,  looks  out  with  him  over 
the  fence  of  their  cottage  garden.  And  it  is  surely  conceiv- 
able that  some  day  the  rich  power  of  a  true  humorist  may  be 
given  to  express  more  vividly  the  comic  side  which  exists  in 
many  beautiful  incidents  of  daily  life,  and  refuse  at  last  to 
dwell,  even  with  a  smile,  on  its  follies. 

This,  however,  must  clearly  be  a  condition  of  future  human 
development,  for  hitherto  the  perfect  power  of  seizing  comic 
incidents  has  always  been  associated  with  some  liking  for 
ugliness,  and  some  exultation  in  disaster.  The  law  holds — 
and  holds  with  no  relaxation — even  in  the  instance  of  so  wise 
and  benevolent  a  man  as  the  Swiss  schoolmaster,  Topffer, 
whose  death,  a  few  years  since,  left  none  to  succeed  him  in 
perfection  of  pure  linear  caricature.  He  can  do  more  with 
fewer  lines  than  any  draughtsman  known  to  me,  and  in  sev- 
eral plates  of  his  '  Histoire  d' Albert, 5  has  succeeded  in  entirely 


332 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


representing  the  tenor  of  conversation  with  no  more  than  half 
the  profile  and  one  eye  of  the  speaker. 

He  generally  took  a  walking  tour  through  Switzerland,  with 
his  pupils,  in  the  summer  holidays,  and  illustrated  his  ex- 
quisitely humorous  diary  of  their  adventures  with  pen 
sketches,  which  show  a  capacity  of  appreciating  beautiful 
landscape  as  great  as  his  grotesque  faculty  ;  but  his  mind  is' 
drawn  away  from  the  most  sublime  scene,  in  a  moment,  to 
the  difficulties  of  the  halting-place,  or  the  rascalities  of  the 
inn  ;  and  his  power  is  never  so  marvellously  exerted  as  in  de- 
picting a  group  of  roguish  guides,  shameless  beggars,  or 
hopeless  cretins. 

Nevertheless,  with  these  and  such  other  materials  as  our 
European  masters  of  physiognomy  have  furnished  in  por- 
traiture of  their  nations,  I  can  see  my  way  to  the  arrange- 
ment of  very  curious  series  of  illustrations  of  character,  if 
only  I  could  also  see  my  way  to  some  place  wherein  to  ex- 
hibit them. 

I  said  in  my  opening  lecture  that  I  hoped  the  studies  of  the 
figure  initiated  by  Mr.  Richmond  might  be  found  consistent 
with  the  slighter  practice  in  my  owTn  schools  ;  and  I  must 
say,  in  passing,  that  the  only  real  hindrance  to  this,  but  at 
present  an  insuperable  one,  is  want  of  room.  It  is  a  some- 
what characteristic  fact,  expressive  of  the  tendencies  of  this 
age,  that  Oxford  thinks  nothing  of  spending  £150,000  for  the 
elevation  and  ornature,  in  a  style  as  inherently  corrupt  as  it 
is  un-English,  of  the  rooms  for  the  torture  and  shame  of  her 
scholars,  which  to  all  practical  purposes  might  just  as  well 
have  been  inflicted  on  them  in  her  college  halls,  or  her  pro- 
fessors' drawing-rooms ;  but  that  the  only  place  where  her 
art-workmen  can  be  taught  to  draw,  is  the  cellar  of  her  old 
Taylor  buildings,  and  the  only  place  where  her  art-professor 
can  store  the  cast  of  a  statue,  is  his  own  private  office  in  the 
gallery  above. 

Pending  the  now  indispensable  addition  of  some  rude  work- 
room to  the  Taylor  galleries,  in  which  study  of  the  figure  may 
be  carried  on  under  a  competent  master,  I  have  lent,  from  the 
drawings  belonging  to  the  St.  George's  Guild,  such  studies  ol 


THE  FIRESIDE. 


333 


Venetian  pictures  as  may  form  the  taste  of  the  figure-student 
in  general  composition,  and  I  have  presented  to  the  Ruskin 
schools  twelve  principal  drawings  out  of  Miss  Alexander's 
Tuscan  book,  which  may  be  standards  of  method,  in  drawing 
from  the  life,  to  students  capable  of  as  determined  industry. 
But,  no  less  for  the  better  guidance  of  the  separate  figure 
class  in  the  room  which  I  hope  one  day  to  see  built,  than  for 
immediate  help  in  such  irregular  figure  study  as  may  be  pos- 
sible under  present  conditions,  I  find  myself  grievously  in 
want  of  such  a  grammar  of  the  laws  of  harmony  in  the  human 
form  and  face  as  may  be  consistent  with  whatever  accurate 
knowledge  of  elder  races  may  have  been  obtained  by  recent 
anthropology,  and  at  the  same  time  authoritative  in  its  state- 
ment of  the  effect  on  human  expression;  of  the  various  mental 
states  and  passions.  And  it  seems  to  me  that  by  arranging  in 
groups  capable  of  easy  comparison,  the  examples  of  similar 
expression  given  by  the  masters  whose  work  we  have  been  re- 
viewing, we  may  advance  further  such  a  science  of  physiog- 
nomy as  will  be  morally  useful,  than  by  any  quantity  of 
measuring  of  savage  crania  :  and  if,  therefore,  among  the 
rudimentary  series  in  the  art  schools  you  find,  before  I  can 
get  the  new  explanatory  catalogues  printed,  some  more  or  less 
systematic  groups  of  heads  collected  out  of  '  Punch,'  you  must 
not  think  that  I  am  doing  this  merely  for  your  amusement,  or 
that  such  examples  are  beneath  the  dignity  of  academical  in- 
struction. My  own  belief  is  that  the  difference  between  the 
features  of  a  good  and  a  bad  servant,  of  a  churl  and  a  gentle- 
man, is  a  much  more  useful  and  interesting  subject  of  en- 
quiry than  the  gradations  of  snub  nose  or  flat  forehead  which 
became  extinct  with  the  Dodo,  or  the  insertions  of  muscle 
and  articulations  of  joint  which  are  common  to  the  flesh  of  all 
humanity. 

Returning  to  our  immediate  subject,  and  considering 
'  Punch '  as  the  expression  of  the  popular  voice,  which  he  vir- 
tually is,  and  even  somewhat  obsequiously,  is  it  not  wonder- 
ful that  he  has  never  a  word  to  say  for  the  British  manufac- 
turer, and  that  the  true  citizen  of  his  own  city  is  represented 
by  him  only  under  the  types,  either  of  Sir  Pompey  Bedell  or 


334 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


of  the  more  tranquil  magnate  and  potentate,  the  bulwark  of 
British  constitutional  principles  and  initiator  of  British  pri- 
vate enterprise,  Mr.  John  Smith,  whose  biography  is  given 
with  becoming  reverence  by  Miss  Ingelow,  in  the  last  but  one 
of  her  '  Stories  told  to  a  Child '  ?  And  is  it  not  also  surely 
some  overruling  power  in  the  nature  of  things,  quite  other 
than  the  desire  of  his  readers,  which  compels  Mr.  Punch, 
when  the  squire,  the  colonel,  and  the  admiral  are  to  be  at  once 
expressed,  together  with  all  that  they  legislate  or  fight  for,  in 
the  symbolic  figure  of  the  nation,  to  represent  the  incarnate 
John  Ball  always  as  a  farmer, — never  as  a  manufacturer  or 
shopkeeper,  and  to  conceive  and  exhibit  him  rather  as  pay- 
master for  the  faults  of  his  neighbours,  than  as  watching  for 
opportunity  of  gain  out  of  their  follies  ? 

It  had  been  well  if  either  under  this  accepted,  though  now 
antiquated,  type,  or  under  the  more  poetical  symbols  of  Bri- 
tannia, or  the  British  Lion,  6  Punch '  had  ventured  of  tener  to 
intimate  the  exact  degree  in  wThich  the  nation  was  following- 
its  ideal ;  and  marked  the  occasions  when  Britannia's  crest 
began  too  fatally  to  lose  its  resemblance  to  Athena's,  and  liken 
itself  to  an  ordinary  cockscomb, — or  when  the  British  Lion 
had — of  course  only  for  a  moment,  and  probably  in  pecuniary 
difficulties — dropped  his  tail  between  his  legs. 

But  the  aspects  under  which  either  British  Lion,  Gallic 
eagle,  or  Kussian  bear  have  been  regarded  by  our  contem- 
plative serial,  are  unfortunately  dependent  on  the  fact  that  all 
his  three  great  designers  are,  in  the  most  narrow  sense,  Lon- 
don citizens.  I  have  said  that  every  great  man  belongs  not 
only  to  his  own  city  but  to  his  own  village.  The  artists  of 
( Punch '  have  no  village  to  belong  to  ;  for  them,  the  street 
corner  is  the  face  of  the  whole  earth,  and  the  two  only  quar- 
ters of  the  heavenly  horizon  are  the  east  and  west — End. 
And  although  Leech's  conception  of  the  Distinguished  For- 
eigner, Du  Maurier's  of  the  Herr  Professor,  and  Tenniel's  of 
La  Liberte,  or  La  France,  are  all  extremely  true  and  delight- 
ful—to the  superficial  extent  of  the  sketch  by  Dickens  in 
'Mrs.  Lirriper's  Lodgings,' — they  are,  effectively,  all  seen 
with  Mrs.  Lirriper's  eyes  ;  they  virtually  represent  of  the  Con- 


THE  FIRESIDE. 


tinent  little  more  than  the  upper  town  of  Boulogne  ;  nor  has 
anything  yet  been  done  by  all  the  wit  and  all  the  kindness  of 
these  great  popular  designers  to  deepen  the  reliance  of  any 
European  nation  on  the  good  qualities  of  its  neighbours. 

You  no  doubt  have  at  the  Union  the  most  interesting  and 
beautiful  series  of  the  Tenniel  cartoons  which  have  been  col- 
lectively published,  with  the  explanation  of  their  motives.  If 
you  begin  with  No.  38,  you  will  find  a  consecutive  series  of 
ten  extremely  forcible  drawings,  casting  the  utmost  obloquy 
in  the  power  of  the  designer  upon  the  French  Emperor,  the 
Pope,  and  the  Italian  clergy,  and  alike  discourteous  to  the 
head  of  the  nation  which  had  fought  side  by  side  with  us  at 
Inkerman,  and  impious  in  its  representation  of  the  Catholic 
power  to  which  Italy  owed,  and  still  owes,  whatever  has  made 
her  glorious  among  the  nations  of  Christendom,  or  happy 
among  the  families  of  the  earth. 

Among  them  you  will  find  other  two,  representing  our 
wars  with  China,  and  the  triumph  of  our  missionary  manner 
of  compelling  free  trade  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet :  while, 
for  the  close  and  consummation  of  the  series,  you  will  see  the 
genius  and  valour  of  your  country  figuratively  summed  in  the 
tableau,  subscribed, — 

'  John  Bull  defends  his  pudding. 1 

Is  this  indeed  then  the  final  myth  of  English  heroism,  into 
which  King  Arthur,  and  St.  George,  and  Britannia,  and  the 
British  Lion  are  all  collated,  concluded,  and  perfected  by 
Evolution,  in  the  literal  words  of  Carlyle,  '  like  four  whale 
cubs  combined  by  boiling '  ?  Do  you  wish  your  Queen  in 
future  to  style  herself  Placentae,  instead  of  Fidei  Defensor  ? 
and  is  it  to  your  pride,  to  your  hope,  or  even  to  your  pleas- 
ure, that  this  once  sacred  as  well  as  sceptred  island  of  yours, 
in  whose  second  capital  city  Constantine  was  crowned  ; — to 
whose  shores  St.  Augustine  and  St.  Columba  brought  bene- 
diction ; — who  gave  her  Lion-hearts  to  the  Tombs  of  the 
East3 — her  Pilgrim  Fathers  to  the  Cradle  of  the  West ; — who 
has  wrapped  the  sea  round  her  for  her  mantle,  and  breathes 
with  her  strong  bosom  the  air  of  every  sign  in  heaven     is  it 


336 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


to  your  good  pleasure  that  the  Hero-children  born  to  her  in 
these  latter  days  should  write  no  loftier  legend  on  their 
shields  than  *  John  Bull  defends  his  pudding  9  ? 

I  chanced  only  the  other  day  on  a  minor,  yet,  to  my  own 
mind,  very  frightful  proof  of  the  extent  to  which  this  caitift 
symbol  is  fastening  itself  in  the  popular  mind.  I  was  in 
search  of  some  extremely  pastoral  musical  instrument, 
whereby  to  regulate  the  songs  of  our  Coniston  village  chil- 
dren, without  the  requirement  of  peculiar  skill  either  in 
master  or  monitor.  But  the  only  means  of  melody  offered  to 
me  by  the  trade  of  the  neighbourhood  wras  this  so-called  £  har- 
monicon/ — purchaseable,  according  to  your  present  notions, 
cheaply,  for  a  shilling ;  and  with  this  piece  of  cheerful  my- 
thology on  its  lid  gratis,  wherein  you  see  what  '  Gradus  ad 
Parnassum 9  we  prepare  for  the  rustic  mind,  and  that  the 
virtue  and  the  jollity  of  England  are  vested  only  in  the  money- 
bag in  each  hand  of  him.  I  shall  place  this  harmonicon  lid  in 
your  schools,  among  my  examples  of  what  we  call  liberal  edu- 
cation,— and,  with  it,  what  instances  I  can  find  of  the  way 
Florence,  Siena,  or  Venice  taught  their  people  to  regard 
themselves. 

For,  indeed,  in  many  a  past  year,  it  has  every  now  and 
then  been  a  subject  of  recurring  thought  to  me,  what  such  a 
genius  as  that  of  Tenniel  would  have  done  for  us,  had  we 
asked  the  best  of  it,  and  had  the  feeling  of  the  nation  respect- 
ing the  arts,  as  a  record  of  its  honour,  been  like  that  of  the 
Italians  in  their  proud  days.  To  some  extent,  the  memory  of 
our  bravest  war  has  been  preserved  for  us  by  the  pathetic 
force  of  Mrs.  Butler ;  but  her  conceptions  are  realistic  only, 
and  rather  of  thrilling  episodes  than  of  great  military  prin- 
ciple and  thought.  On  the  contrary,  Tenniel  has  much  of  the 
largeness  and  symbolic  mystery  of  imagination  which  belong- 
to  the  great  leaders  of  classic  art :  in  the  shadowy  masses 
and  sweeping  lines  of  his  great  compositions,  there  are  ten- 
dencies which  might  have  won  his  adoption  into  the  school 
of  Tintoret ;  and  his  scorn  of  whatever  seems  to  him  dis- 
honest or  contemptible  in  religion,  would  have  translated 
itself  into  awe  in  the  presence  of  its  vital  power. 


THE  FIRESIDE. 


337 


I  gave  you,  when  first  I  came  to  Oxford,  Tintoret's  picture 
of  the  Doge  Mocenigo,  with  his  divine  spiritual  attendants,  in 
the  cortile  of  St.  Mark's.  It  is  surely  our  own  fault,  more 
than  Mr.  Tenniel's,  if  the  best  portraits  he  can  give  us  of  the 
heads  of  our  English  government  should  be  rather  on  the  oc- 
casion of  their  dinner  at  Greenwich  than  their  devotion  at  Si 
Paul's. 

My  time  has  been  too  long  spent  in  carping  ; — but  yet  the 
faults  which  I  have  pointed  out  were  such  as  could  scarcely 
occur  to  you  without  some  such  indication,  and  which  gravely 
need  your  observance,  and,  as  far  as  you  are  accountable  for 
them,  your  repentance.  I  can  best  briefly,  in  conclusion,  de- 
fine what  I  would  fain  have  illustrated  at  length,  the  charm, 
in  this  art  of  the  Fireside,  which  you  tacitly  feel,  and  have 
every  rational  ground  to  rejoice  in.  With  whatever  restriction 
you  should  receive  the  flattery,  and  with  whatever  caution  the 
guidance,  of  these  great  illustrators  of  your  daily  life,  this  at 
least  you  may  thankfully  recognize  in  the  sum  of  their  work, 
that  it  contains  the  evidence  of  a  prevalent  and  crescent  beauty 
and  energy  in  the  youth  of  our  day,  which  may  justify  the 
most  discontented  '  laudator  temporis  acti'  in  leaving  the  fu- 
ture happily  in  their  hands.  The  witness  of  ancient  art  points 
often  to  a  general  and  equal  symmetry  of  body  and  mind  in 
well  trained  races ;  but  at  no  period,  so  far  as  I  am  able  to 
gather  by  the  most  careful  comparison  of  existing  portraiture, 
has  there  ever  been  a  loveliness  so  variably  refined,  so  modestly 
and  kindly  virtuous,  so  innocently  fantastic,  and  so  daintily 
pure,  as  the  present  girl-beauty  of  our  British  Islands :  and 
whatever,  for  men  now  entering  on  the  main  battle  of  life, 
may  be  the  confused  temptations  or  inevitable  errors  of  a  pe- 
riod of  moral  doubt  and  social  change,  my  own  experience  of 
help  already  received  from  the  younger  members  of  this  Uni- 
versity, is  enough  to  assure  me  that  there  has  been  no  time, 
in  all  the  pride  of  the  past,  when  their  country  might  more 
serenely  trust  in  the  glory  of  her  youth  ; — when  her  prosperity 
was  more  secure  in  their  genius,  or  her  honour  in  their  hearts. 


338 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


LECTURE  VI. 

The  Hill-Side. 

GEORGE  ROBSON  AND  COPLEY  FIELDING. 

In  the  five  preceding  lectures  given  this  year,  I  have  en- 
deavoured to  generalize  the  most  noteworthy  facts  respecting 
the  religious,  legendary,  classic,  and,  in  two  kinds,  domestic, 
art  of  England.  There  remains  yet  to  be  defined  one,  far- 
away, and,  in  a  manner,  outcast,  school,  which  belongs  as  yet 
wholly  to  the  present  century  ;  and  which,  if  we  were  to  trust 
to  appearances,  would  exclusively  and  for  ever  belong  to  it, 
neither  having  been  known  before  our  time,  nor  surviving 
afterwards, — the  art  of  landscape. 

Not  known  before, — except  as  a  trick,  or  a  pastime  ;  not 
surviving  afterwards,  because  wTe  seem  straight  on  the  wTay  to 
pass  our  lives  in  cities  twenty  miles  wide,  and  to  travel  from 
each  of  them  to  the  next,  underground  :  outcast  now,  even 
while  it  retains  some  vague  hold  on  old-fashioned  people's 
minds,  since  the  best  existing  examples  of  it  are  placed  by 
the  authorities  of  the  National  Gallery  in  a  cellar  lighted  by 
only  two  windows,  and  those  at  the  bottom  of  a  well,  blocked 
by  four  dead  brick  walls  fifty  feet  high. 

Notwithstanding  these  discouragements,  I  am  still  minded 
to  carry  out  the  design  in  which  the  so-called  Ruskin  schools 
were  founded,  that  of  arranging  in  them  a  code  of  elementary 
practice,  which  should  secure  the  skill  of  the  student  in  the 
department  of  landscape  before  he  entered  on  the  branches 
of  art  requiring  higher  genius.  Nay,  I  am  more  than  ever 
minded  to  fulfil  my  former  purpose  now,  in  the  exact  degree 
in  which  I  see  the  advantages  of  such  a  method  denied  or 
refused  in  other  academies  ;  and  the  beauty  of  natural  scenery 
increasingly  in  danger  of  destruction  by  the  gross  interests 
and  disquieting  pleasures  of  the  citizen.  For  indeed,  as  I 
before  stated  to  you,  when  first  I  undertook  the  duties  of  this 
professorship,  my  own  personal  liking  for  landscape  made  ra@ 


THE  HILL-SIDE. 


339 


extremely  guarded  in  recommending  its  study.  I  only  gave 
three  lectures  on  landscape  in  six  years,  and  I  never  published 
them  ;  my  hope  and  endeavour  was  to  connect  the  study  of 
Nature  for  you  with  that  of  History  ;  to  make  you  interested 
in  Greek  legend  as  well  as  in  Greek  lakes  and  limestone  ;  to 
acquaint  you  with  the  relations  of  northern  hills  and  rivers  to 
the  schools  of  Christian  Theology  ;  and  of  Renaissance  town- 
life  to  the  rage  of  its  infidelity.  But  I  have  done  enough,- — ■ 
and  more  than  enough, — according  to  my  time  of  life,  in  these 
directions  ;  and  now,  justified,  I  trust,  in  your  judgment,  from 
the  charge  of  weak  concession  to  my  own  predilections,  I  shall 
arrange  the  exercises  required  consistently  from  my  drawing- 
classes,  with  quite  primary  reference  to  landscape  art ;  and 
teach  the  early  philosophy  of  beauty,  under  laws  liable  to  no 
dispute  by  human  passion,  but  secure  in  the  grace  of  Earth, 
and  light  of  Heaven. 

And  I  wish  in  the  present  lecture  to  define  to  you  the 
nature  and  meaning  of  landscape  art,  as  it  arose  in  England 
eighty  years  ago,  without  reference  to  the  great  master  whose 
works  have  been  the  principal  subject  of  my  own  enthusiasm. 
I  have  always  stated  distinctly  that  the  genius  of  Turner  was 
exceptional,  both  in  its  kind  and  in  its  height  :  and  although 
his  elementary  modes  of  work  are  beyond  dispute  authorita- 
tive, and  the  best  that  can  be  given  for  example  and  exercise, 
the  general  tenor  of  his  design  is  entirely  beyond  the  accept- 
ance of  common  knowledge,  and  even  of  safe  sympathy.  For 
in  his  extreme  sadness,  and  in  the  morbid  tones  of  mind  out 
of  which  it  arose,  he  is  one  with  Byron  and  Goethe  ;  and  is 
no  more  to  be  held  representative  of  general  English  land- 
scape art  than  Childe  Harold  or  Faust  are  exponents  of  the 
total  love  of  Nature  expressed  in  English  or  German  litera- 
ture. To  take  a  single  illustrative  instance,  there  is  no  fore- 
ground of  Turner's  in  which  you  can  find  a  flower. 

In  some  respects,  indeed,  the  vast  strength  of  this  unfol- 
lowable  Eremite  of  a  master  was  crushing,  instead  of  edifying, 
to  the  English  schools.  All  the  true  and  strong  men  who 
were  his  contemporaries  shrank  from  the  slightest  attempt  at 
rivalry  with  him  on  his  own  lines  ; — and  his  own  lines  were 


3±0 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


cast  far.  But  for  him,  Stanfield  might  have  sometimes  paint* 
ed  an  Alpine  valley,  or  a  Biscay  storm  ;  but  the  moment  there 
was  any  question  of  rendering  magnitude,  or  terror,  every 
effort  became  puny  beside  Turner,  and  Stanfield  meekly  re- 
signed himself  to  potter  all  his  life  round  the  Isle  of  "Wight, 
and  paint  the  Needles  on  one  side,  and  squalls  off  Cowes  on 
the  other.  In  like  manner,  Copley  Fielding  in  his  young- 
days  painted  vigorously  in  oil,  and  showed  promise  of  attain- 
ing considerable  dignity  in  classic  composition  ;  but  the 
moment  Turner's  Garden  of  Hesperides  and  Building  of 
Carthage  appeared  in  the  Academy,  there  was  an  end  to  am- 
bition in  that  direction  ;  and  thenceforth  Fielding  settled 
down  to  his  quiet  presidency  of  the  old  Water-colour  Society, 
and  painted,  in  unassuming  replicas,  his  passing  showers  in 
the  Highlands,  and  sheep  on  the  South  Downs. 

Which  are,  indeed,  for  most  of  us,  much  more  appropriate 
objects  of  contemplation  ;  and  the  old  water-colour  room  at 
that  time,  adorned  yearly  with  the  complete  year's  labour  of 
Fielding,  Eobson,  De  Wint,  Barrett,  Prout,  and  William 
Hunt,  presented  an  aggregate  of  unaffected  pleasantness  and 
truth,  the  like  of  which,  if  you  could  now  see,  after  a  morn- 
ing spent  among  the  enormities  of  luscious  and  exotic  art 
which  frown  or  glare  along  your  miles  of  exhibition  wall, 
would  really  be  felt  by  you  to  possess  the  charm  of  a  bouquet 
of  bluebells  and  cowslips,  amidst  a  prize  show  of  cactus  and 
orchid  from  the  hothouses  of  Kew. 

The  root  of  this  delightfulness  was  an  extremely  rare  sin- 
cerity in  the  personal  pleasure  which  all  these  men  took,  not 
in  their  own  pictures,  but  in  the  subjects  of  them — a  form  of 
enthusiasm  which,  while  it  was  as  simple,  was  also  as  roman- 
tic, in  the  best  sense,  as  the  sentiment  of  a  young  girl :  and 
whose  nature  I  can  the  better  both  define  and  certify  to  you, 
because  it  was  the  impulse  to  which  I  owed  the  best  force  of 
my  own  life,  and  in  sympathy  with  which  I  have  done  or  said 
whatever  of  saying  or  doing  in  it  has  been  useful  to  others. 

When  I  spoke,  in  this  year's  first  lecture,  of  Bossetti,  as  the 
chief  intellectual  force  in  the  establishment  of  the  modern 
Romantic  School ;  and  again  in  the  second  lecture  promised, 


THE  HILL-SIDE. 


341 


at  the  end  of  our  course,  the  collection  of  the  evidence  of 
Romantic  passion  in  all  our  good  English  art,  you  will  find  it 
explained  at  the  same  time  that  I  do  not  use  the  word  Roman- 
tic as  opposed  to  Classic,  but  as  opposed  to  the  prosaic  char- 
acters of  selfishness  and  stupidity,  in  all  times,  and  among  all 
nations.  I  do  not  think  of  King  Arthur  as  opposed  to  The- 
seus, or  to  Valerius,  but  to  Alderman  Sir  Robert,  and  Mr, 
John  Smith.  And  therefore  I  opposed  the  child-like  love  of 
beautiful  things,  in  even  the  least  of  our  English  Modern 
Painters,  from  the  first  page  of  the  book  I  wrote  about  them 
to  the  last, — in  Greek  Art,  to  what  seemed  to  me  then  (and  in 
a  certain  sense  is  demonstrably  to  me  now)  too  selfish  or  too 
formal, — and  in  Teutonic  Art,  to  what  was  cold  in  a  far 
worse  sense,  either  by  boorish  dulness  or  educated  affectation. 

I  think  the  two  best  central  types  of  Non-Romance,  of  the 
power  of  Absolute  Vulgarity  in  selfishness,  as  distinguished 
from  the  eternal  dignity  of  Reverence  and  Love,  are  stamped 
for  you  on  the  two  most  finished  issues  of  your  English  cur- 
rency in  the  portraits  of  Henry  the  Eighth  and  Charles  the 
Second.  There  is  no  interfering  element  in  the  vulgarity  of 
them,  no  pardon  to  be  sought  in  their  poverty,  ignorance,  or 
weakness.  Both  are  men  of  strong  powers  of  mind,  and  both 
well  informed  in  all  particulars  of  human  knowledge  possible 
to  them.  But  in  the  one  you  see  the  destroyer,  according  to 
his  power,  of  English  religion  ;  and,  in  the  other,  the  destroyer, 
according  to  his  power,  of  English  morality  :  culminating 
types  to  you  of  whatever  in  the  spirit,  or  dispirit,  of  succeed- 
ing ages,  robs  God,  or  dishonours  man. 

I  named  to  you,  as  an  example  of  the  unromantic  art  which 
was  assailed  by  the  pre-Raphaelites,  Vandyke's  sketch  of  the 
'  Miraculous  Draught  of  Fishes/  Very  near  it,  in  the  National 
Gallery,  hangs  another  piscatory  subject,*  by  Teniers,  which 
I  will  ask  you  carefully  also  to  examine  as  a  perfect  type  of 
the  Unromantic  Art  which  was  assailed  by  the  gentle  enthusi- 

*  No.  817,  'Teniers'  Chateau  at  Perck.'  The  expressions  touching  the 
want  of  light  in  it  are  a  little  violent,  being  strictly  accurate  only  of 
such  pictures  of  the  Dutch  school  as  Vanderneer's  'Evening  Landscape,' 
152,  and  1  Canal  Scene,'  7o2. 


342 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


asm  of  the  English  School  of  Landscape.  It  represents  a  few 
ordinary  Dutch  houses,  an  ordinal  Dutch  steeple  or  two,— 
some  still  more  ordinary  Dutch  trees, — and  most  ordinary 
Dutch  clouds,  assembled  in  contemplation  of  an  ordinary 
Dutch  duck-pond  ;  or,  perhaps,  in  respect  of  its  size,  we  may 
more  courteously  call  it  a  goose-pond.  All  these  objects  are 
painted  either  grey  or  brown,  and  the  atmosphere  is  of  the 
kind  which  looks  not  merely  as  if  the  sun  had  disappeared 
for  the  day,  but  as  if  he  had  gone  out  altogether,  and  left  a 
stable  lantern  instead.  The  total  effect  having  appeared,  even 
to  the  painter's  own  mind,  at  last  little  exhilatory,  he  has  en- 
livened it  by  three  figures  on  the  brink  of  the  goose-pond, — 
two  gentlemen  and  a  lady, — standing  all  three  perfectly  up- 
right, side  by  side,  in  court  dress,  the  gentlemen  with  expan- 
sive boots,  and  all  with  conical  hats  and  high  feathers.  In 
order  to  invest  these  characters  with  dramatic  interest,  a  rus- 
tic fisherman  presents  to  them  as  a  tribute, — or.  perhaps,  ex- 
hibits as  a  natural  curiosity,  a  large  fish,  just  elicited  from  the 
goose-pond  by  his  adventurous  companions,  who  have  waded 
into  the  middle  of  it,  every  one  of  them,  with  singular  exacti- 
tude, up  to  the  calf  of  his  leg.  The  principles  of  National 
Gallery  arrangement  of  course  put  this  picture  on  the  line, 
while  Tintoret*  and  Gainsborough  are  hung  out  of  sight ;  but 
in  this  instance  I  hold  myself  fortunate  in  being  able  to  refer 
you  to  an  example,  so  conveniently  examinable,  of  the  utmost 
stoop  and  densest  level  of  human  stupidity  yet  fallen  to  by 
any  art  in  which  some  degree  of  manual  dexterity  is  essen- 
tial. 

This  crisis  of  degradation,  you  will  observe,  takes  place  at 
the  historical  moment  when  by  the  concurrent  power  of 
avaricious  trade  on  one  side,  and  unrestrained  luxury  on  the 
other,  the  idea  of  any  but  an  earthly  interest,  and  any  but 
proud  or  carnal  pleasures,  had  been  virtually  effaced  through- 
out Europe  ;  and  men,  by  their  resolute  self-seeking,  had 
literally  at  last  ostracised  the  Spiritual  Sun  from  Heaven,  and 

*  The  large  new  Tintoret  wholly  so,  and  the  largest  Gainsborough,  the 
best  in  England  known  to  me,  used  merely  for  wall  furniture  at  the  top 
of  the  room. 


THE  HILL-SIDE. 


343 


lived  by  little  more  than  the  snuff  of  the  wick  of  their  own 
mental  stable  lantern. 

The  forms  of  romantic  art  hitherto  described  in  this  course 
of  lectures,  were  all  distinctly  reactionary  against  the  stupor 
of  this  Stygian  pool,  brooded  over  by  Batavian  fog.  But  the 
first  signs  of  re-awakening  in  the  vital  power  of  imagination 
were,  long  before,  seen  in  landscape  art.  Not  the  utmost 
strength  of  the  great  figure  painters  could  break  through  the 
bonds  of  the  flesh.  Reynolds  vainly  tried  to  substitute  the 
age  of  Innocence  for  the  experience  of  Religion — the  true 
genius  at  his  side  remained  always  Cupid  unbinding  the 
girdle  of  Venus.  Gainsborough  knew  no  goddesses  other 
than  Mrs.  Graham  or  Mrs.  Siddons  ;  Vandyke  and  Rubens, 
than  the  beauties  of  the  court,  or  the  graces  of  its  corpulent 
Mythology.  But  at  last  there  arose,  and  arose  inevitably,  a 
feeling  that,  if  not  any  more  in  Heaven,  at  least  in  the  solitary 
places  of  the  earth,  there  was  a  pleasure  to  be  found  based 
neither  on  pride  nor  sensuality. 

Among  the  least  attractive  of  the  mingled  examples  in  your 
school-alcove,  you  will  find  a  quiet  pencil-drawing  of  a  sunset 
at  Rome,  seen  from  beneath  a  deserted  arch,  whether  of 
Triumph  or  of  Peace.  Its  modest  art-skill  is  restricted  almost 
exclusively  to  the  expression  of  wTarm  light  in  the  low  har- 
mony of  evening  ;  but  it  differs  wholly  from  the  learned  com- 
positions and  skilled  artifices  of  former  painting  by  its  purity 
of  unaffected  pleasure  and  rest  in  the  little  that  is  given. 
Here,  at  last,  we  feel,  is  an  honest  Englishman,  who  has  got 
away  out  of  all  the  Camere,  and  the  Loggie,  and  the  Stanze, 
and  the  schools,  and  the  Disputas,  and  the  Incendios,  and  the 
Battagiias,  and  busts  of  this  god,  and  torsos  of  that,  and  the 
chatter  of  the  studio,  and  the  rush  of  the  corso  ; — and  has  laid 
himself  down,  with  his  own  poor  eyes  and  heart,  and  the  sun 
casting  its  light  between  ruins, — possessor,  he,  of  so  much  of 
the  evidently  blessed  peace  of  things, — he,  and  the  poor  lizard 
in  the  cranny  of  the  stones  beside  him. 

I  believe  that  with  the  name  of  Richard  Wilson,  the  history 
of  sincere  landscape  art,  founded  on  a  meditative  love  of  Nat- 
ure, begins  for  England  :  and,  I  may  add,  for  Europe,  without 


3ii 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


any  wide  extension  of  claim  ;  for  the  only  continental  land- 
scape  work  of  any  sterling  merit  with  which  I  am  acquainted, 
consists  in  the  old-fashioned  drawings,  made  fifty  years  ago 
to  meet  the  demand  of  the  first  influx  of  British  travellers 
into  Switzerland  after  the  fall  of  Napoleon. 

With  Richard  Wilson,  at  all  events,  our  own  true  and  mod- 
est schools  began,  an  especial  direction  being  presently  given 
to  them  in  the  rendering  effects  of  aerial  perspective  by  the 
skill  in  water-colour  of  Girtin  and  Cousins.  The  drawings  of 
these  two  masters,  recently  bequeathed  to  the  British  Museum, 
and  I  hope  soon  to  be  placed  in  a  well-lighted  gallery,  contain 
quite  insuperable  examples  of  skill  in  the  management  of  clear 
tints,  and  of  the  meditative  charm  consisting  in  the  quiet  and 
unaffected  treatment  of  literally  true  scenes. 

But  the  impulse  to  which  the  new  school  owed  the  discovery 
of  its  power  in  colour  wTas  owing,  I  believe,  to  the  poetry  of 
Scott  and  Byron.  Both  by  their  vivid  passion  and  accurate 
description,  the  painters  of  their  day  were  taught  the  true  value 
of  natural  colour,  while  the  love  of  mountains,  common  to 
both  poets,  forced  their  illustrators  into  reverent  pilgrimage 
to  scenes  which  till  then  had  been  thought  too  desolate  for 
the  spectator's  interest,  or  too  difficult  for  the  painter's  skill. 

I  have  endeavoured,  in  the  92nd  number  of  '  Fors  Glavigera,' 
to  give  some  analysis  of  the  main  character  of  the  scenery  by 
which  Scott  was  inspired  ;  but,  in  endeavouring  to  mark  with 
distinctness  enough  the  dependence  of  all  its  sentiment  on  the 
beauty  of  its  rivers,  I  have  not  enough  referred  to  the  collat- 
eral charm,  in  a  Borderer's  mind,  of  the  very  mists  and  rain 
that  feed  them.  In  the  climates  of  Greece  and  Italy,  the  mo, 
notonous  sunshine,  burning  away  the  deep  colours  of  every, 
thing  into  white  and  grey,  and  wasting  the  strongest  mountain 
streams  into  threads  among  their  shingle,  alternates  with  the 
blue-fiery  thundercloud,  with  sheets  of  flooding  rain,  and  vob 
leying  musketry  of  hail.  But  throughout  all  the  wild  uplands 
of  the  former  Saxon  kingdom  of  Northumbria,  from  Edwin's 
crag  to  Hilda's  cliff,  the  wreaths  of  softly  resting  mist,  and 
wandering  to  and  fro  of  capricious  shadows  of  clouds,  and 
drooping  swathes,  or  flying  fringes,  of  the  benignant  western 


THE  HILL  SIDE. 


345 


rain,  cherish,  on  every  moorland  summit,  the  deep  fibred  moss, 
— embalm  the  myrtle, — gild  the  asphodel, — enchant  along  the 
valleys  the  wild  grace  of  their  woods,  and  the  green  elf  land 
of  their  meadows  ;  and  passing  away,  or  melting  into  the 
translucent  calm  of  mountain  air,  leave  to  the  open  sunshine 
a  world  with  every  creature  ready  to  rejoice  in  its  comfort, 
and  every  rock  and  flower  reflecting  new  loveliness  to  its 
light. 

Perhaps  among  the  confusedly  miscellaneous  examples  of 
ancient  and  modern,  tropic  or  arctic  art,  with  which  I  have 
filled  the  niches  of  your  schools,  one,  hitherto  of  the  least 
noticeable  or  serviceable  to  you,  has  been  the  dark  Copley 
Fielding  drawing  above  the  fire-place  ; — nor  am  I  afraid  of 
trusting  your  kindness  with  the  confession,  that  it  is  placed 
there  more  in  memory  of  my  old  master,  than  in  the  hope  of 
its  proving  of  any  lively  interest  or  use  to  you.  But  it  is  now 
some  fifty  years  since  it  was  brought  in  triumph  to  Heme 
Hill,  being  the  first  picture  my  father  ever  bought,  and  in  so 
far  the  foundation  of  the  subsequent  collection,  some  part  of 
which  has  been  permitted  to  become  permanently  national  at 
Cambridge  and  Oxford.  The  pleasure  which  that  single 
drawing  gave  on  the  morning  of  its  installation  in  our  home 
was  greater  than  to  the  purchaser  accustomed  to  these  times 
of  limitless  demand  and  supply  would  be  credible,  or  even 
conceivable  ; — and  our  back  parlour  for  that  day  was  as  full 
of  surprise  and  gratulation  as  ever  Cimabue's  joyful  Borgo. 

The  drawing  represents,  as  you  will  probably — not — re- 
member, only  a  gleam  of  sunshine  on  a  peaty  moor,  bringing 
out  the  tartan  plaids  of  two  Highland  drovers,  and  relieved 
against  the  dark  grey  of  a  range  of  quite  featureless  and 
nameless  distant  mountains,  seen  through  a  soft  curtain  of 
rapidly  drifting  rain, 

Some  little  time  after  we  had  acquired  this  unobtrusive 
treasure,  one  of  my  fellow  students, — it  was  in  my  under- 
graduate days  at  Christ  Church — came  to  Heme  Hill  to 
see  what  the  picture  might  be  which  had  afforded  me  so 
great  ravishment.  He  had  himself,  as  afterwards  Kingslake 
and  Curzon,  been  urged  far  by  the  thirst  of  oriental  travel ; 


346 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


the  chequer  of  plaid  and  bonnet  had  for  him  but  feeble  in- 
terest after  having  worn  turban  and  capote  ;  and  the  grey  of 
Scottish  hillside  still  less,  to  one  who  had  climbed  Olympus 
and  Abarim.  After  gazing  blankly  for  a  minute  or  two  at  the 
cheerless  district  through  which  lay  the  drovers'  journey,  he 
turned  to  me  and  said,  "But,  Ruskin,  what  is  the  use  of 
painting  such  very  bad  weather  ?  "  And  I  had  no  answer, 
except  that,  for  Copley  Fielding  and  for  me,  there  was  no 
sucli  thing  as  bad  weather,  but  only  different  kinds  of  pleas- 
ant weather — some  indeed  inferring  the  exercise  of  a  little 
courage  and  patience  ;  but  all,  in  every  hour  of  it,  exactly 
what  was  fittest  and  best,  whether  for  the  hills,  the  cattle, 
the  drovers — or  my  master  and  me. 

Be  the  case  as  it  might, — and  admitting  that  in  a  certain 
sense  the  weather  might  be  bad  in  the  eyes  of  a  Greek  or  a 
Saracen, — there  was  no  question  that  to  us  it  was  not  only 
pleasant,  but  picturesque  ;  and  that  we  set  ourselves  to  the 
painting  of  it,  with  as  sincere  desire  to  represent  the — to  our 
minds — beautiful  aspect  of  a  mountain  shower,  as  ever  Titian 
a  blue  sky,  or  Angelico  a  golden  sphere  of  Paradise.  Nay,  in 
some  sort,  with  a  more  perfect  delight  in  the  thing  itself,  and 
less  coloring  of  by  our  own  thoughts  or  inventions.  For  that 
matter,  neither  Fielding,  nor  Robson,  nor  David  Cox,  nor 
Peter  de  Wint,  nor  any  of  this  school,  ever  had  much  thought 
or  invention  to  disturb  them.  They  were,  themselves,  a  kind 
of  contemplative  cattle,  and  flock  of  the  field,  who  merely 
liked  being  out  of  doors,  and  brought  as  much  painted  fresh 
air  as  they  could,  back  into  the  house  with  them. 

Neither  must  you  think  that  this  painting  of  fresh  air  is  an 
entirely  easy  or  soon  managed  business.  You  may  paint  a 
modern  French  emotional  landscape  with  a  pail  of  whitewash 
and  a  pot  of  gas-tar  in  ten  minutes,  at  the  outside.  I  don't 
know  how  long  the  operator  himself  takes  to  it — of  course 
some  little  more  time  must  be  occupied  in  plastering  on  the 
oil-paint  so  that  it  will  stick,  and  not  run ;  but  the  skill  of  a 
good  plasterer  is  really  all  that  is  required, — the  rather  that 
in  the  modern  idea  of  solemn  symmetry  you  always  make  the 
bottom  of  your  picture,  as  much  as  you  can,  like  the  top. 


THE  HILL-SIDE. 


347 


You  put  seven  or  eight  streaks  of  the  plaster  for  your  sky,  to 
begin  with  ;  then  you  put  in  a  row  of  bushes  with  the  gas-tar, 
then  you  rub  the  ends  of  them  into  the  same  shapes  upside 
down — you  put  three  or  four  more  streaks  of  white,  to  inti- 
mate the  presence  of  a  pool  of  wrater — and  if  you  finish  off 
with  a  log  that  looks  something  like  a  dead  body,  your  pict- 
ure will  have  the  credit  of  being  a  digest  of  a  whole  novel  of 
Gaboriau,  and  lead  the  talk  of  the  season. 

Far  other  was  the  kind  of  labour  required  of  even  the  least 
disciple  of  the  old  English  water-colour  school.  In  the  first 
place,  the  skill  of  laying  a  perfectly  even  and  smooth  tint  with 
absolute  precision  of  complex  outline  was  attained  to  a  degree 
which  no  amateur  draughtsman  can  have  the  least  conception 
of.  Water-colour,  under  the  ordinary  sketcher's  mismanage- 
ment, drops  and  dries  pretty  nearly  to  its  own  fancy, — slops 
over  every  outline,  clots  in  every  shade,  seams  itself  with  un- 
desirable edges,  speckles  itself  with  inexplicable  grit,  and  is 
never  supposed  capable  of  representing  anything  it  is  meant 
for,  till  most  of  it  has  been  washed  out.  But  the  great  pri- 
mary masters  of  the  trade  could  lay,  with  unerring  precision 
of  tone  and  equality  of  depth,  the  absolute  tint  they  wanted 
without  a  flaw  or  a  retouch  ;  and  there  is  perhaps  no  greater 
marvel  of  artistic  practice  and  finely  accurate  intention  exist- 
ing, in  a  simple  kind,  greater  than  the  study  of  a  Yorkshire 
waterfall,  by  Girtin,  now  in  the  British  Museum,  in  which 
every  sparkle,  ripple,  and  current  is  left  in  frank  light  by  the 
steady  pencil  which  is  at  the  same  instant,  and  with  the  same 
touch,  drawing  the  forms  of  the  dark  congeries  of  channelled 
rocks,  while  around  them  it  disperses  the  glitter  of  their 
spray. 

Then  further,  on  such  basis  of  wrell-laid  primary  tint,  the 
old  water-colour  men  were  wont  to  obtain  their  effects  of  at- 
mosphere by  the  most  delicate  washes  of  transparent  colour, 
reaching  subtleties  of  gradation  in  misty  light,  which  were 
wholly  unthought  of  before  their  time.  In  this  kind  the 
depth  of  far-distant  brightness,  freshness,  and  mystery  of 
morning  air  with  which  Copley  Fielding  used  to  invest  the 
midges  of  the  South  Downs,  as  they  rose  out  of  the  blue  Sus- 


348 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


sex  champaign,  remains,  and  I  believe  must  remain,  insupera- 
ble, while  his  sense  of  beauty  in  the  cloud -forms  associated 
with  higher  mountains,  enabled  him  to  invest  the  compara- 
tively modest  scenery  of  our  own  island, — out  of  which  he 
never  travelled, — with  a  charm  seldom  attained  by  the  most 
ambitious  painters  of  Alp  or  Apennine. 

I  vainly  tried  in  writing  the  last  volume  of  '  Modern  Paint- 
ers '  to  explain,  even  to  myself,  the  course  or  nature  of  the 
pure  love  of  mountains  which  in  boyhood  was  the  ruling  pas- 
sion of  my  life,  and  which  is  demonstrably  the  first  motive  of 
inspiration  with  Scott,  Wordsworth,  and  Byron.  The  more  I 
analyzed,  the  less  I  could  either  understand,  or  justify,  the 
mysterious  pleasure  wTe  all  of  us,  great  or  small,  had  in  the 
land's  being  up  and  down  instead  of  level  ;  and  the  less  I  felt 
able  to  deny  the  claim  of  prosaic  and  ignobly-minded  persons 
to  be  allowed  to  like  it  level,  instead  of  up  and  down.  In  the 
end  I  found  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  simply  to  assure 
those  recusant  and  grovelling  persons  that  they  were  perfectly 
wrong,  and  that  nothing  could  be  expected,  either  in  art  or 
literature,  from  people  who  like  to  live  among  snipes  and 
widgeons. 

Assuming  it,  therefore,  for  a  moral  axiom  that  the  love  of 
mountains  wTas  a  heavenly  gift,  and  the  beginning  of  wisdom, 
it  may  be  imagined,  if  we  endured  for  their  sakes  any  number 
of  rainy  days  with  philosophy,  with  what  rapture  the  old 
painters  were  wont  to  hail  the  reappearance  of  their  idols, 
with  all  their  cataracts  refreshed,  and  all  their  copse  and  crags 
respangled,  flaming  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky.  Very 
certainly  and  seriously  there  are  no  such  emotions  to  be  had 
out  of  the  hedged  field  or  ditched  fen  ;  and  I  have  often 
charitably  paused  in  my  instances  in  '  Fors  Clavigera '  that 
onr  squires  should  live  from  year's  end  to  year's  end  on  their 
own  estates,  when  I  reflected  how  many  of  their  acres  lay  in 
Leicestershire  and  Lincolnshire,  or  even  on  duller  levels,  where 
there  was  neither  good  hunting  nor  duck-shooting. 

I  am  only  able  to  show  you  two  drawings  in  illustration  of 
these  sentiments  of  the  mountain  school,  and  one  of  those  is 
only  a  copy  of  a  Robson,  but  one  quite  good  enough  to  repre- 


THE  HILLSIDE. 


319 


sent  his  manner  of  work  and  tone  of  feeling.  He  died  young, 
and  there  may  perhaps  be  some  likeness  to  the  gentle  depth 
of  sadness  in  Keats,  traceable  in  his  refusal  to  paint  any  of 
the  leaping  streams  or  bright  kindling  heaths  of  Scotland, 
while  he  dwells  with  a  monotony  of  affection  on  the  clear  re- 
pose of  the  northern  twilight,  and  on  the  gathering  of  the 
shadow  in  the  mountain  gorges,  till  all  their  forms  were  folded 
in  one  kingly  shroud  of  purple  death.  But  over  these  hours 
and  colours  of  the  scene  his  governance  was  all  but  complete  ; 
and  even  in  this  unimportant  and  imperfectly  rendered  ex- 
ample, the  warmth  of  the  departing  sunlight,  and  the  depth 
of  soft  air  in  the  recesses  of  the  glen,  are  given  with  harmony 
more  true  and  more  pathetic  than  you  will  find  in  any  recent 
work  of  even  the  most  accomplished  masters. 

But  of  the  loving  labour,  and  severely  disciplined  observa- 
tion, which  prepared  him  for  the  expression  of  this  feeling  for 
chiaroscuro,  you  can  only  judge  by  examining  at  leisure  his 
outlines  of  Scottish  scenery,  a  work  of  whose  existence  I  had 
no  knowledge,  until  the  kindness  of  Mrs.  Inge  advised  me  of 
it,  and  further,  procured  for  me  the  loan  of  the  copy  of  it  laid 
on  the  table  ;  which  you  will  find  has  marks  placed  in  it  at  the 
views  of  Byron's  Lachin-y-Gair,  of  Scott's  Ben  Venue,  and  of 
all  Scotsmen's  Ben  Lomond, — plates  which  you  may  take  for 
leading  types  of  the  most  careful  delineation  ever  given  to 
mountain  scenery,  for  the  love  of  it,  pure  and  simple. 

The  last  subject  has  a  very  special  interest  to  me  ;  and— if 
you  knew  all  I  could  tell  you,  did  time  serve,  of  the  associa- 
tions connected  with  it — would  be  seen  gratefully  by  you  also. 
In  the  text  descriptive  of  it,  (and  the  text  of  this  book  is  quite 
exceptionally  sensible  and  useful,  for  a  work  of  the  sort),  Mr. 
Ilobson  acknowledges  his  obligation  for  the  knowledge  of  this 
rarely  discovered  view  of  Ben  Lomond,  to  Sir  Thomas  Acland, 
the  father  of  our  own  Dr.  Henry  Acland,  the  strength  of  whose 
whole  life  hitherto  has  been  passed  in  the  eager  and  unselfish 
service  of  the  University  of  Oxford.  His  father  was,  of  all 
amateur  artists  I  ever  knew,  the  best  draughtsman  of  moun- 
tains, not  with  spasmodic  force,  or  lightly  indicated  feeling, 
but  with  firm,  exhaustive,  and  unerring  delineation  of  their 


350 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


crystalline  and  geologic  form.  From  him  the  faith  in  the 
beauty  and  truth  of  natural  science  in  connection  with  art  was 
learned  happily  by  his  physician-son,  by  whom,  almost  un- 
aided, the  first  battles  were  fought — and  fought  hard — before 
any  of  you  eager  young  physicists  were  born,  in  the  then  de- 
spised causes  of  natural  science  and  industrial  art.  That  cause 
was  in  the  end  sure  of  victory,  but  here  in  Oxford  its  triumph 
would  have  been  long  deferred,  had  it  not  been  for  the  energy 
and  steady  devotion  of  Dr.  Acland.  Without  him — little  as  you 
may  think  it — the  great  galleries  and  laboratories  of  this  build- 
ing, in  which  you  pursue  your  physical-science  studies  so  ad- 
vantageously, and  so  forgetfully  of  their  first  advocate,  would 
not  yet  have  been  in  existence.  Nor,  after  their  erection,  (if 
indeed  in  this  there  be  any  cause  for  your  thanks),  w^ould  an 
expositor  of  the  laws  of  landscape  beauty  have  had  the  priv- 
ilege of  addressing  you  under  their  roof. 

I  am  indebted  also  to  one  of  my  Oxford  friends,  Miss  Sy- 
monds,  for  the  privilege  of  showing  you,  with  entire  satisfac- 
tion, a  perfectly  good  and  characteristic  drawing  by  Copley 
Fielding,  of  Cader  Idris,  seen  down  the  vale  of  Dolgelly ;  in 
which  he  has  expressed  with  his  utmost  skill  the  joy  of  his 
heart  in  the  aerial  mountain  light,  and  the  iridescent  wildness 
of  the  mountain  foreground  ;  nor  could  you  see  enforced  with 
any  sweeter  emphasis  the  truth  on  which  Mr.  Morris  dwelt  so 
earnestly  in  his  recent  address  to  you — that  the  excellence 
of  the  . work  is,  caeteris  paribus,  in  proportion  to  the  joy  of  the 
workman. 

There  is  a  singular  character  in  the  colouring  of  Fielding, 
as  he  uses  it  to  express  the  richness  of  beautiful  vegetation  ; 
he  makes  the  sprays  of  it  look  partly  as  if  they  were  strewn 
with  jewels.  He  is  of  course  not  absolutely  right  in  this  ;  to 
some  extent  it  is  a  conventional  exaggeration — and  yet  it  has 
a  basis  of  truth  which  excuses,  if  it  does  not  justify,  this  ex- 
pression of  his  pleasure  ;  for  no  colour  can  possibly  represent 
vividly  enough  the  charm  of  radiance  which  you  can  see  by 
looking  close]y  at  dew-sprinkled  leaves  and  flowers. 

You  must  ask  Professor  Clifton  to  explain  to  you  why  it  is 
that  a  drop  of  water,  while  it  subdues  the  hue  of  a  green  leaf 


TEE  HILL  SIDE.  351 


or  blue  flower  into  a  soft  grey,  and  shows  itself  therefore  on 
the  grass  or  the  clock-leaf  as  a  lustrous  dimness,  enhances  the 
force  of  all  warm  colours,  so  that  you  never  can  see  what  the 
colour  of  a  carnation  or  a  wild  rose  really  is  till  you  get 
the  dew  on  it.  The  effect  is,  of  course,  on]y  generalized  at  the 
distance  of  a  paintable  foreground  ;  but  it  is  always  in  reality 
part  of  the  emotion  of  the  scene,  and  justifiably  sought  in  any 
possible  similitude  by  the  means  at  our  disposal. 

It  is  with  still  greater  interest  and  reverence  to  be  noted 
as  a  physical  truth  that  in  states  of  joyful  and  healthy  ex- 
citement the  eye  becomes  more  highly  sensitive  to  the  beauty 
of  colour,  and  especially  to  the  blue  and  red  rays,  while  in 
depression  and  disease  all  colour  becomes  dim  to  us,  and  the 
yellow  rays  prevail  over  the  rest,  even  to  the  extremity  of 
jaundice.  But  while  I  direct  your  attention  to  these  deeply 
interesting  conditions  of  sight,  common  to  the  young  and  old, 
I  must  warn  you  of  the  total  and  most  mischievous  fallacy  of 
the  statements  put  forward  a  few  years  ago  by  a  foreign  ocu- 
list, respecting  the  changes  of  sight  in  old  age.  I  neither 
know,  nor  care,  what  states  of  senile  disease  exist  when  the 
organ  has  been  misused  or  disused ;  but  in  all  cases  of  dis- 
ciplined and  healthy  sight,  the  sense  of  colour  and  form  is  ab- 
solutely one  and  the  same  from  childhood  to  death. 

When  I  was  a  boy  of  twelve  years  old,  I  saw  nature  with 
Turner's  eyes,  he  being  then  sixty  ;  and  I  should  never  have 
asked  permission  to  resume  the  guidance  of  your  schools, 
unless  now,  at  sixty-four,  I  saw  the  same  hues  in  heaven  and 
earth  as  when  I  walked  a  child  by  my  mother's  side. 

Neither  may  you  suppose  that  between  Turner's  eyes,  and 
yours,  there  is  any  difference  respecting  which  it  may  be  dis- 
puted whether  of  the  two  is  right.  The  sight  of  a  great 
painter  is  as  authoritative  as  the  lens  of  a  camera  lucida  ;  he 
perceives  the  form  which  a  photograph  will  ratify  ;  he  is  sen- 
sitive to  the  violet  or  to  the  golden  ray  to  the  last  precision 
and  gradation  of  the  chemist's  denning  light  and  intervaled 
line.  But  the  veracity,  as  the  joy,  of  this  sensation, — and  the 
one  involves  the  other, — are  dependent,  as  I  have  said,  first 
on  vigour  of  health,  and  secondly  on  the  steady  looking  for 


352 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


and  acceptance  of  the  truth  of  nature  as  she  gives  it  you,  and 
not  as  you  like  to  have  it — to  inflate  your  own  pride,  or  sat* 
isfv  your  own  passion.  If  pursued  in  that  insolence,  or  in  that 
concupiscence,  the  phenomena  of  all  the  universe  becomes 
first  gloomy,  and  then  spectral ;  the  sunset  becomes  demo- 
niac fire  to  you,  and  the  clouds  of  heaven  as  the  smoke  of 
Acheron. 

If  there  is  one  part  more  than  another  which  in  my  early 
writing  deservedly  obtained  audience  and  acceptance,  it  was 
that  in  which  I  endeavoured  to  direct  the  thoughts  of  my 
readers  to  the  colours  of  the  sky,  and  to  the  forms  of  its 
clouds.  But  it  has  been  my  fate  to  live  and  work  in  direct 
antagonism  to  the  instincts,  and  yet  more  to  the  interests,  of 
the  age  ;  since  I  wrote  that  chapter  on  the  pure  traceries  of 
the  vault  of  morning,  the  fury  of  useless  traffic  has  shut  the 
sight,  whether  of  morning  or  evening,  from  more  than  the 
third  part  of  England  ;  and  the  foulness  of  sensual  fantasy  has 
infected  the  bright  beneficence  of  the  life-giving  sky  with  the 
dull  horrors  of  disease,  and  the  feeble  falsehoods  of  insanity. 
In  the  book  professing  to  initiate  a  child  in  the  elements  of 
natural  science,  of  which  I  showed  you  the  average  character 
of  illustration  at  my  last  lecture,  there  is  one  chapter  espe- 
cially given  to  aerial  phenomena— wherein  the  cumulus  cloud 
is  asserted  to  occur  "  either  under  the  form  of  a  globe  or  a 
half-globe,"  and  in  such  shape  to  present  the  most  exciting 
field  for  the  action  of  imagination.  What  the  French  artistic 
imagination  is  supposed  to  produce,  under  the  influence  of 
this  excitement,  wTe  find  represented  by  a  wood-  cut,  of  which 
Mr.  Macdonald  has  reproduced  for  you  the  most  sublime 
portion.  May  I,  for  a  minute  or  two,  delay,  and  prepare  you 
for,  its  enjoyment  by  reading  the  lines  in  which  Wordsworth 
describes  the  impression  made  on  a  cultivated  and  pure- 
hearted  spectator,  by  the  sudden  opening  of  the  sky  after 
storm  ? — 

"  A  single  step,  that  freed  me  from  the  skirts 
Of  the  blind  vapour,  opened  to  my  view 
Glory  beyond  all  glory  ever  seen 
By  waking  sense  or  by  the  dreaming  soul ! 


THE  HILL-SIDE. 


3L>3 


The  appearance,  instantaneously  disclosed, 
Was  of  a  mighty  city — boldly  say 
A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 
And  self-withdrawn  into  a  boundless  depth, 
Far-sinking  into  splendour —  without  end! 
Fabric  it  seemed  of  diamond  and  of  gold, 
With  alabaster  domes,  and  silver  spires, 
And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 
Uplifted  ;  here,  serene  pavilions  bright, 
In  avenues  disposed  ;  there,  towers  begirt 
With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 
Bore  stars — illumination  of  all  gems ! 
By  earthly  nature  had  the  effect  been  wrought 
Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 
Now  pacified  ;  on  them,  and  on  the  coves 
And  mountain-steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 
The  vapours  had  receded,  taking  there 
Their  station  under  a  cerulean  skjr." 

I  do  not  mean  wholly  to  ratify  this  Wordsworthian  state- 
ment of  Arcana  Coelestia,  since,  as  far  as  I  know  clouds  my- 
self, they  look  always  like  clouds,  and  are  no  more  walled  like 
castles  than  backed  like  weasles.  And  farther,  observe  that 
no  great  poet  ever  tells  you  that  be  saw  something  finer  than 
anybody  ever  saw  before.  Great  poets  try  to  describe  what 
all  men  see,  and  to  express  what  all  men  feel ;  if  they  cannot 
describe  it,  they  let  it  alone  ;  and  what  they  say,  say  '  boldly  ' 
always,  without  advising  their  readers  of  that  fact. 

Nevertheless,  though  extremely  feeble  poetry,  this  piece 
of  bold  Wordsworth  is  at  least  a  sincere  effort  to  describe 
what  was  in  truth  to  the  writer  a  most  rapturous  vision, — 
with  which  we  may  now  compare  to  our  edification  the  sort  of 
object  which  the  same  sort  of  cloud  suggests  to  the  modern 
French  imagination. 

It  would  be  surely  superfluous  to  tell  you  that  this  repre- 
sentation of  cloud  is  as  false  as  it  is  monstrous  ;  but  the 
point  which  I  wish  principally  to  enforce  on  your  attention  is 
that  all  this  loathsome  and  lying  defacement  of  book  pages, 
which  looks  as  if  it  would  end  in  representing  humanity  only 
in  its  skeleton,  and  nature  only  in  her  ashes,  is  all  of  it; 
founded  first  on  the  desire  to  make  the  volume  saleable  at 


354 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


small  cost,  and  attractive  to  the  greatest  number,  on  what- 
ever terms  of  attraction. 

The  significant  change  which  Mr.  Morris  made  in  the  title 
of  his  recent  lecture,  from  Art  and  Democracy,  to  Art  and 
Plutocracy,  strikes  at  the  root  of  the  whole  matter ;  and  with 
wider  sweep  of  blow  than  he  permitted  himself  to  give  his 
words.  The  changes  which  he  so  deeply  deplored,  and  so 
grandly  resented,  in  this  once  loveliest  city,  are  due  wholly  to 
the  deadly  fact  that  her  power  is  now  dependent  on  the  Plu- 
tocracy of  Knowledge,  instead  of  its  Divinity.  There  are  in- 
deed many  splendid  conditions  in  the  new  impulses  with 
which  we  are  agitated, — or  it  may  be  inspired  ;  but  against 
one  of  them,  I  must  warn  you,  in  all  affection  and  in  all  duty. 

So  far  as  you  come  to  Oxford  in  order  to  get  your  living 
out  of  her,  you  are  ruining  both  Oxford  and  yourselves. 
There  never  has  been,  there  never  can  be,  any  other  law  re- 
specting the  wisdom  that  is  from  above,  than  this  one  pre- 
cept,— "  Buy  the  Truth,  and  sell  it  not.',  It  is  to  be  costly  to 
you — of  labour  and  patience  ;  and  you  are  never  to  sell  it, 
but  to  guard,  and  to  give. 

Much  of  the  enlargement,  though  none  of  the  defacement, 
of  old  Oxford  is  owing  to  the  real  life  and  the  honest  seeking 
of  extended  knowledge.  But  more  is  owing  to  the  supposed 
money  value  of  that  knowledge  ;  and  exactly  so  far  forth,  her 
enlargement  is  purely  injurious  to  the  University  and  to  her 
scholars. 

In  the  department  of  her  teaching,  therefore,  which  is  en- 
trusted to  my  care,  I  wish  it  at  once  to  be  known  that  I  will 
entertain  no  question  of  the  saleability  of  this  or  that  manner 
of  art  ;  and  that  I  shall  steadily  discourage  the  attendance  of 
students  who  propose  to  make  their  skill  a  source  of  income. 
Not  that  the  true  labourer  is  unworthy  of  his  hire,  but  that, 
above  all,  in  the  beginning  and  first  choice  of  industry,  his 
heart  must  not  be  the  heart  of  an  hireling. 

You  may,  and  with  some  measure  of  truth,  ascribe  this  de- 
termination in  me  to  the  sense  of  my  own  weakness  and  want 
of  properly  so-called  artistic  gift.  That  is  indeed  so  ;  there 
are  hundreds  of  men  better  qualified  than  I  to  teach  practical 


THE  HILL-SIDE. 


355 


technique  :  and,  in  their  studios,  all  persons  desiring  to  be  art- 
ists should  place  themselves.  But  I  never  would  have  come 
to  Oxford,  either  before  or  now,  unless  in  the  conviction  that  I 
was  able  to  direct  her  students  precisely  in  that  degree  and 
method  of  application  to  art  which  was  most  consistent  with 
the  general  and  perpetual  functions  of  the  University. 

Now,  therefore,  to  prevent  much  future  disappointment  and 
loss  of  time  both  to  you  and  to  myself,  let  me  forewarn  you 
that  I  will  not  assist  out  of  the  schools,  nor  allow  in  them, 
modes  of  practice  taken  up  at  each  student's  fancy. 

In  the  classes,  the  modes  of  study  will  be  entirely  fixed  ;  and 
at  your  homes  I  cannot  help  you,  unless  you  work  in  accord- 
ance with  the  class  rules, — which  rules,  however,  if  you  do 
folio w3  you  will  soon  be  able  to  judge  and  feel  for  yourselves, 
whether  you  are  doing  right,  and  getting  on,  or  otherwise. 
This  I  tell  you  with  entire  confidence,  because  the  illustrations 
and  examples  of  the  modes  of  practice  in  question,  which  I 
have  been  showing  you  in  the  course  of  these  lectures,  have  been 
furnished  to  me  by  young  people  like  yourselves  ;  like  in  all 
things  except  only, — so  far  as  they  are  to  be  excepted  at  all, — 
in  the  perfect  repose  of  mind,  which  has  been  founded  on  a 
simply  believed,  and  unconditionally  obeyed,  religion. 

On  the  repose  of  mind,  I  say;  and  there  is  a  singular  physical 
truth  illustrative  of  that  spiritual  life  and  peace  which  I  must  yet 
detain  you  by  indicating  in  the  subject  of  our  study  to-day. 
You  see  how  this  foulness  of  false  imagination  represents,  in 
every  line,  the  clouds  not  only  as  monstrous,  — but  tumultuous. 
Now  all  lovely  clouds,  remember,  are  quiet  clouds,  — not  merely 
quiet  in  appearance,  because  of  their  greater  height  and  dis- 
tance, but  quiet  actually,  fixed  for  hours,  it  may  be,  in  the  same 
form  and  place.  I  have  seen  a  fair-weather  cloud  high  over  Con- 
iston  Old  Man, — not  on  the  hill,  observe,  but  a  vertical  mile 
above  it, — stand  motionless, — changeless, — for  twelve  hours 
together.  From  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  one  day  I 
watched  it  through  the  night  by  the  north  twilight,  till  the 
dawn  struck  it  with  full  crimson,  at  four  of  the  following  Julv 
morning.  What  is  glorious  and  good  in  the  heavenly  cloud, 
you  can,  if  you  will,  bring  also  into  your  lives, — which  are  in- 


356 


THE  ART  OF  ENGLAND. 


deed  like  it,  in  their  vanishing,  but  how  much  more  in  their 
not  vanishing,  till  the  morning  take  them  to  itself.  As  this 
ghastly  phantasy  of  death  is  to  the  mighty  clouds  of  which  it  is 
written,  6  The  chariots  of  God  are  twenty  thousand,  even  thou- 
sands of  angels/  are  the  fates  to  which  your  passion  may  con- 
demn you, — or  your  resolution  raise.  You  may  drift  with  the 
phrenzy  of  the  whirlwind, — or  be  fastened  for  your  part  in 
the  pacified  effulgence  of  the  sky.  Will  you  not  let  your  lives 
be  lifted  up,  in  fruitful  rain  for  the  earth,  in  scatheless  snow 
to  the  sunshine, — so  blessing  the  years  to  come,  when  the 
surest  knowledge  of  England  shall  be  of  the  will  of  her  heav- 
enly Father,  and  the  purest  art  of  England  be  the  inheritance 
of  her  simplest  children  ? 


APPENDIX. 


The  foregoing  lectures  were  written,  among  other  reasons, 
with  the  leading  object  of  giving  some  permanently  rational 
balance  between  the  rhapsodies  of  praise  and  blame  which 
idly  occupied  the  sheets  of  various  magazines  last  year  on  the 
occasion  of  the  general  exhibition  of  Rossetti's  works  ;  and 
carrying  forward  the  same  temperate  estimate  of  essential 
value  in  the  cases  of  other  artists — or  artistes— of  real,  though 
more  or  less  restricted,  powers,  whose  works  were  immedi- 
ately interesting  to  the  British  public,  I  have  given  this  bal- 
ance chiefly  in  the  form  of  qualified,  though  not  faint,  praise, 
which  is  the  real  function  of  just  criticism  ;  for  the  multitude 
can  always  see  the  faults  of  good  work,  but  never,  unaided, 
its  virtues  :  on  the  contrary,  it  is  equally  quick-sighted  to  the 
vulgar  merits  of  bad  work,  but  no  tuition  will  enable  it  to  con- 
demn the  vices  with  which  it  has  a  natural  sympathy  ;  and,  in 
general,  the  blame  of  them  is  wasted  on  its  deaf  ears. 

When  the  course  was  completed,  I  found  that  my  audiences 
had  been  pleased  by  the  advisedly  courteous  tone  of  comment 
to  which  I  had  restricted  myself  ;  and  I  received  not  a  few 
congratulations  on  the  supposed  improvement  of  my^temper 
and  manners,  under  the  stress  of  age  and  experience.  The 
tenor  of  this  terminal  lecture  may  perhaps  modify  the  opinion 
of  my  friends  in  these  respects  ;  but  the  observations  it  con- 
tains are  entirely  necessary  in  order  to  complete  the  service- 
ableness,  such  as  it  may  be,  of  all  the  preceding  statements. 

In  the  first  place,  may  I  ask  the  reader  to  consider  with 
himself  why  British  painters,  great  or  small,  are  never  right 
altogether  ?  Why  their  work  is  always,  somehow,  flawed, — 
never  in  any  case,  or  even  in  any  single  picture,  thorough  ? 


358 


APPENDIX. 


Is  it  not  a  strange  thing,  and  a  lamentable,  that  no  British  art- 
ist  has  ever  lived,  of  whom  one  can  say  to  a  student,  "Imitate 
him — and  prosper  ;  "  while  yet  the  great  body  of  minor  artists 
are  continually  imitating  the  master  who  chances  to  be  in 
fashion ;  and  any  popular  mistake  will  carry  a  large  majority 
of  the  Britannic  mind  into  laboriously  identical  blunder,  for 
two  or  three  artistic  generations  ? 

I  had  always  intended  to  press  this  question  home  on  my 
readers  in  my  concluding  lecture  ;  but  it  was  pressed  much 
more  painfully  home  on  myself  by  the  recent  exhibition  of 
Sir  Joshua  at  Burlington  House  and  the  Grosvenor.  There 
is  no  debate  that  Sir  Joshua  is  the  greatest  figure-painter 
whom  England  has  produced, — Gainsborough  being  sketchy 
and  monotonous  f  in  comparison,  and  the  rest  virtually  out  of 
court,  But  the  gathering  of  any  man's  work  into  an  unin- 
tended mass,  enforces  his  failings  in  sickening  iteration,  while 
it  levels  his  merits  in  monotony  ; — and  after  shrinking,  here, 
from  affection  worthy  only  of  the  Bath  Parade,  and  mourning, 
there,  over  negligence  '  fit  for  a  fool  to  fall  by/  I  left  the 
rooms,  really  caring  to  remember  nothing,  except  the  curl  of 
hair  over  St.  Cecilia's  left  ear,  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Abington,  and 
the  wink  of  Mrs.  Nesbitt's  white  cat. 

It  is  true  that  I  was  tired,  and  more  or  less  vexed  with  my- 
self, as  well  as  with  Sir  Joshua  ;  but  no  bad  humour  of  mine 
alters  the  fact,  that  Sir  Joshua  was  always  affected, — often 
negligent, — sometimes  vulgar, — and  never  sublime  ;  and  that, 
in  this  collective  representation  of  English  Art  under  highest 
patronage  and  of  utmost  value,  it  was  seen,  broadly  speaking, 
that  neither  the  painter  knew  how  to  paint,  the  patron  to  pre- 
serve, nor  the  cleaner  to  restore. 

If  this  be  true  of  Sir  Joshua,  and  of  the  public  of  Lords 
and  Ladies  for  whom  he  worked, — what  are  we  to  say  of  the 
multitude  of  entirely  uneducated  painters,  competing  for  the 
patronage  of  entirely  uneducated  people  ;  and  filling  our  an- 
nual exhibitions,  no  more  with  what  Carlyle  complains  of  as  the 
Correggiosities  of  Correggio,  but  with  what  perhaps  may  be 

*  "  How  various  the  fellow  is !  *  Gainsborough  himself,  jealous  of 
Sir  Joshua  at  the  '  private  view/ 


APPENDIX. 


359 


enough  described  and  summed  under  the  simply  reversed 
phrase — the  Incorreggiosities  of  Incorreggio. 

And  observe  that  the  gist  of  this  grievous  question  is  that 
our  English  errors  are  those  of  very  amiable  and  worthy  peo- 
ple, conscientious  after  a  sort,  working  under  honourable  en- 
couragement, and  entirely  above  the  temptations  which  betray 
the  bulk  of  the  French  and  Italian  schools  into  sharing,  or 
consulting  the  taste  only  of  the  demi-monde. 

The  French  taste  in  this  respect  is  indeed  widely  and  rap- 
idly corrupting  our  own,  but  such  corruption  is  recognizable 
at  once  as  disease  :  it  does  not  in  the  least  affect  the  broad 
questions  concerning  all  English  artists  that  ever  were  or  are, 
why  Hunt  can  paint  a  flower,  but  not  a  cloud  ;  Turner,  a 
cloud,  but  not  a  flower  ;  Bewick,  a  pig,  but  not  a  girl ;  and 
Miss  Greenaway  a  girl,  but  not  a  pig. 

As  I  so  often  had  to  say  in  my  lecture  on  the  inscrutability 
of  Clouds,  I  leave  the  question  with  you,  and  pass  on. 

But,  extending  the  inquiry  beyond  England,  to  the  causes 
of  failure  in  the  art  of  foreign  countries,  I  have  especially  to 
signalize  the  French  contempt  for  the  'Art  de  Province/  and 
the  infectious  insanity  of  centralization,  throughout  Europe, 
which  collects  necessarily  all  the  vicious  elements  of  any  coun- 
try's life  into  one  mephitic  cancer  in  its  centre. 

All  great  art,  in  the  great  times  of  art,  is  provincial,  showing 
its  energy  in  the  capital,  but  educated,  and  chiefly  productive, 
in  its  own  country  town.  The  best  works  of  Correggio  are 
at  Parma,  but  he  lived  in  his  patronymic  village  ;  the  best 
works  of  Cagliariat,  Venice,  but  he  learned  to  paint  at  Ve- 
rona ;  the  best  works  of  Angelico  are  at  Borne,  but  he  lived 
at  Fesole  :  the  best  works  of  Luini  at  Milan,  but  he  lived  at 
Luino.  And,  with  still  greater  necessity  of  moral  law,  the 
cities  which  exercise  forming  power  on  style,  are  themselves 
provincial.  There  is  no  Attic  style,  but  there  is  a  Doric  and 
Corinthian  one.  There  is  no  Boman  style,  but  there  is  an 
TJmbrian,  Tuscan,  Lombard,  and  Venetian  one.  There  is  no 
Parisian  style,  but  there  is  a  Norman  and  Burgundian  one. 
There  is  no  London  or  Edinburgh  style,  but  there  is  a  Kent- 
ish  and  Northumbrian  one. 


BCD 


APPENDIX. 


Farther,— the  tendency  to  centralization,  which  has  been 
fatal  to  art  in  all  times,  is,  at  this  time,  pernicious  in  totally 
unprecedented  degree,  because  the  capitals  of  Europe  are  all 
of  monstrous  and  degraded  architecture.  An  artist  in  former 
ages  might  be  corrupted  by  the  manners,  but  he  was  exalted 
by  the  splendour,  of  the  capital ;  and  perished  amidst  mag- 
nificence of  palaces  :  but  now — the  Board  of  Works  is  capable 
of  no  higher  skill  than  drainage,  and  the  British  artist  floats 
placidly  down  the  maximum  current  of  the  National  Cloaca, 
to  his  Dunciad  rest,  content,  virtually,  that  his  life  should  be 
spent  at  one  end  of  a  cigar,  and  his  fame  expire  at  the  other. 

In  literal  and  fatal  instance  of  fact — think  what  ruin  it  is 
for  men  of  any  sensitive  faculty  to  live  in  such  a  city  as  Lon- 
don is  now  !  Take  the  highest  and  lowest  state  of  it :  you 
have,  typically,  Grosvenor  Square, — an  aggregation  of  bricks 
and  railings,  with  not  so  much  architectural  faculty  expressed 
in  the  whole  cumber  of  them  as  there  is  in  a  wasp's  nest  or  a 
w7orm-hole  ; — and  you  have  the  rows  of  houses  which  you 
look  down  into  on  the  south  side  of  the  South-Western  line, 
between  Vauxhall  and  Glapham  Junction.  Between  those  two 
ideals  the  London  artist  must  seek  his  own  ;  and  in  the  hu- 
manity, or  the  vermin,  of  them,  worship  the  aristocratic  and 
scientific  gods  of  living  Israel. 

In  the  chapter  called  '  The  Two  Boyhoods  f  of  £  Modern 
Painters/  I  traced,  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  the  difference 
between  existing  London  and  former  Venice,  in  their  effect, 
as  schools  of  art,  on  the  minds  of  Turner  and  Giorgione.  I 
would  reprint  the  passage  here  :  but  it  needs  expansion  and 
comment,  which  I  hope  to  give,  with  other  elucidary  notes  on 
former  texts,  in  my  October  lectures.  But  since  that  com- 
parison was  written,  a  new  element  of  evil  has  developed  itself 
against  art,  which  I  had  not  then  so  much  as  seen  the  slightest 
beginnings  of.  The  description  of  the  school  of  Giorgione 
ends  ('Modern  Painters/  vol.  v.,  p.  291)  with  this  sentence,— 

"  Ethereal  strength  of  Alps,  dreamlike,  vanishing  in  high 
procession  beyond  the  Torcellan  shore  ;  blue  islands  of  Pa- 
duan  hills,  poised  in  the  golden  west.  Above,  free  winds  and 
Jiery  clouds  ranging  at  their  will ;  brightness  out  of  the  vori/i: 


APPENDIX. 


361 


and  balm  from  the  south,  and  the  Stars  of  the  Evening  and 
Morning  clear  in  the  limitless  light  of  arched  heaven  and  cir- 
cling sea." 

Now  if  I  had  written  that  sentence  with  foreknowledge  of 
the  approach  of  those  malignant  aerial  phenomena  which,  be- 
ginning ten  years  afterwards,  were  to  induce  an  epoch  of  con- 
tinual diminution  in  the  depth  of  the  snows  of  the  Alps,  and 
a  parallel  change  in  the  relations  of  the  sun  and  sky  to  organic 
life,  I  could  not  have  set  the  words  down  with  more  concen- 
trated precision,  to  express  the  beautiful  and  healthy  states  of 
natural  cloud  and  light,  to  which  the  plague-cloud  and  plague- 
wind  of  the  succeeding  sera  were  to  be  opposed.  Of  the 
physical  character  of  these,  some  account  was  rendered  in  my 
lectures  at  the  London  Institution  ;  of  their  effect  on  the  ar- 
tistic power  of  our  time,  I  have  to  speak  now  ;  and  it  will  be 
enough  illustrated  by  merely  giving  an  accurate  account  of 
the  weather  yesterday  (20th  May,  1884). 

Most  people  would  have  called  it  a  fine  day  ;  it  was,  as  com- 
pared with  other  days  of  the  spring,  exceptionally  clear :  Hel- 
vellyn,  at  a  distance  of  fifteen  miles,  showing  his  grassy  sides 
as  if  one  could  reach  them  in  an  hour's  walk.  The  sunshine  was 
warm  and  full,  and  I  went  out  at  three  in  the  afternoon  to 
superintend  the  weeding  of  a  bed  of  wild  raspberries  on  the 
moor.  I  had  put  no  upper  coat  on — and  the  moment  I  got 
out  of  shelter  of  the  wood,  found  that  there  was  a  brisk  and 
extremely  cold  wind  blowing  steadily  from  the  southwest — 
i.  e.,  straight  over  Black  Coomb  from  the  sea.  Now,  it  is  per- 
fectly normal  to  have  keen  east  wind  with  a  bright  sun  in 
March,  but  to  have  keen  south-west  wind  with  a  bright  sun  on 
the  20th  of  May  is  entirely  abnormal,  and  destructive  to  the 
chief  beauty  and  character  of  the  best  month  in  the  year. 

I  have  only  called  the  wind  keen, — bitter,  would  have  been 
nearer  the  truth ;  even  a  young  and  strong  man  could  not 
have  stood  inactive  in  it  with  safety  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour ; 
and  the  danger  of  meeting  it  full  after  getting  hot  in  any 
work  under  shelter  was  so  great  that  I  had  instantly  to  give 
up  all  idea  of  gardening,  and  went  up  to  the  higher  moor  to 
study  the  general  state  of  colour  and  light  in  the  hills  and  sky. 


362 


APPENDIX. 


The  sun  was — the  reader  may  find  how  high  for  himself, 
three  o'clock  p.m.,  on  20th  May,  in  latitude  55°:  at  a  guess,  40 
degrees  ;  and  the  entire  space  of  sky  under  him  to  the  horizon 
— and  far  above  him  towards  the  zenith — say  40  degrees  all 
round  him,  was  a  dull  pale  grey,  or  dirty  white, — very  full 
of  light,  but  totally  devoid  of  colour  or  sensible  grada- 
tion. Common  flake-white  deadened  with  a  little  lamp- 
black would  give  all  the  colour  there  was  in  it, —  a  mere 
tinge  of  yellow  ochre  near  the  sun.  This  lifeless  stare  of 
the  sky  changed  gradually  towards  the  zenith  into  a  dim 
greyish  blue,  and  then  into  definite  blue — or  at  least  what 
most  people  would  call  blue,  opposite  the  sun  answering  the 
ordinary  purpose  of  blue  pretty  well,  though  really  only  a 
bluish  grey.  The  main  point  was  to  ascertain  as  nearly  as 
possible  the  depth  of  it,  as  compared  with  other  tints  and 
lights. 

Holding  my  arm  up  against  it  so  as  to  get  the  shirt  sleeve 
nearly  in  full  sunlight,  but  with  a  dark  side  of  about  a  quarter 
its  breadth,  I  found  the  sky  quite  vigorously  dark  against  the 
white  of  the  sleeve;  yet  vigorously  also  detached  in  light  be- 
yond its  dark  side.  Now  the  dark  side  of  the  shirt  sleeve  was 
pale  grey  compared  to  the  sunlighted  colour  of  my  coat-sleeve. 
And  that  again  was  luminous  compared  to  its  own  dark  side, 
and  that  dark  side  was  still  not  black.  Count  the  scale  thus 
obtained.  You  begin  at  the  bottom  with  a  tint  of  russet  not 
reaching  black  ;  you  relieve  this  distinctly  against  a  lighter  rus- 
set, you  relieve  that  strongly  against  a  pale  warm  grey,  you 
relieve  that  against  the  brightest  white  you  can  paint.  Then 
the  sky-blue  is  to  be  clearly  lighter  than  the  pale  warm  grey, 
and  yet  as  clearly  darker  than  the  white. 

Any  landscape  artist  will  tell  you  that  this  opposition  can- 
not be  had  in  painting  with  its  natural  force  ; — and  that  in  all 
pictorial  use  of  the  effect,  either  the  dark  side  must  be  exag- 
gerated in  depth,  or  the  relief  of  the  blue  from  it  sacrificed. 
But,  though  I  began  the  study  of  such  gradation  just  half  a 
century  ago,  carrying  my  "  cyanometer  "  as  I  called  it — (a 
sheet  of  paper  gradated  from  deepest  blue  to  white),  with  me 
always  through  a  summer's  journey  on  the  Continent  in  1835 


APPENDIX. 


363 


I  never  till  yesterday  felt  the  full  difficulty  of  explaining  the 
enormous  power  of  contrast  which  the  real  light  possesses  in 
its  most  delicate  tints.  I  note  this  in  passing  for  future  in- 
quiry ;  at  present  I  am  concerned  only  with  the  main  fact 
that  the  darkest  part  of  the  sky-blue  opposite  the  sun  was  light- 
er, by  much,  than  pure  white  in  the  shade  in  open  air — (that 
is  to  say,  lighter  by  much  than  the  margin  of  the  page  of  this 
book  as  you  read  it) — and  that  therefore  the  total  effect  of  the 
landscape  was  of  diffused  cold  light,  against  which  the  hills 
rose  clear,  but  monotonously  grey  or  dull  green — while  the 
lake,  being  over  the  whole  space  of  it  agitated  by  strong  wind, 
took  no  reflections  from  the  shores,  and  was  nothing  but  a  flat 
piece  of  the  same  grey  as  the  sky,  traversed  by  irregular  black- 
ness from  more  violent  squalls.  The  clouds,  considerable  in 
number,  were  all  of  them  alike  shapeless,  colourless,  and  light- 
less,  like  dirty  bits  of  wool,  without  any  sort  of  arrangement 
or  order  of  action,  yet  not  quiet ; — touching  none  of  the  hills, 
yet  not  high  above  them  ;  and  whatever  character  they  had, 
enough  expressible  by  a  little  chance  rubbing  about  of  the 
brush  charged  with  cleanings  of  the  palette. 

Supposing  now  an  artist  in  the  best  possible  frame  of  mind 
for  work,  having  his  heart  set  on  getting  a  good  Coniston 
subject ;  and  any  quantity  of  skill,  patience,  and  whatsoever 
merit  you  choose  to  grant  him, — set,  this  day,  to  make  his 
study  ;  what  sort  of  study  can  he  get  ?  In  the  first  place,  he 
must  have  a  tent  of  some  sort — he  cannot  sit  in  the  wind — 
and  the  tent  will  be  always  unpegging  itself  and  flapping 
about  his  ears — (if  he  tries  to  sketch  quickly,  the  leaves  of  his 
sketch-book  will  all  blow  up  into  his  eyes  *)  ; — next,  he  can- 
not draw  a  leaf  in  the  foreground,  for  they  are  all  shaking 
like  aspens  ;  nor  the  branch  of  a  tree  in  the  middle  distance, 
for  they  are  all  bending  like  switches  ;  nor  a  cloud,  for  the 
clouds  have  no  outline  ;  nor  even  the  effect  of  waves  on  the 
lake  surface,  for  the  catspaws  and  swirls  of  wind  drive  the 
dark  spaces  over  it  like  feathers.  The  entire  form-value  of 
the  reflections,  the  colour  of  them  and  the  sentiment,  are  lost ; 
(were  it  sea  instead  of  lake,  there  would  be  no  wraves,  to  call 
*  No  artist  who  knows  his  business  ever  uses  a  block  book. 


CG4 


APPENDIX. 


waves,  but  only  dodging  and  swinging  lumps  of  water — dirty 
or  dull  blue  according  to  the  nearness  to  coast).  The  moun- 
tains have  no  contrast  of  colour,  nor  any  positive  beauty  of 
it :  in  the  distance  they  are  not  blue,  and  though  clear  for  the 
present,  are  sure  to  be  dim  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  will  prob- 
ably disappear  altogether  towards  evening  in  mere  grey 
smoke. 

What  sort  of  a  study  can  he  make  ?  What  sort  of  a  pict- 
ure ?  He  has  got  his  bread  to  win,  and  must  make  his  canvas 
attractive  to  the  public — somehow.  What  resource  has  he, 
but  to  try  by  how  few  splashes  he  can  produce  something  like 
hills  and  water,  and  put  in  the  vegetables  out  of  his  head  ? — 
according  to  the  last  French  fashion. 

Now,  consider  what  a  landscape  painter's  work  used  to  be,  in 
ordinary  spring  weather  of  old  times.  You  put  your  lunch  in 
your  pocket,  and  set  out,  any  fine  morning,  sure  that,  unless 
by  a  mischance  which  needn't  be  calculated  on,  the  forenoon, 
and  the  evening,  would  be  fine  too.  You  chose  two  subjects 
handily  near  each  other,  one  for  a.m.,  the  other  for  p.m.  ;  you  sate 
down  on  the  grass  where  you  liked,  worked  for  three  or  four 
hours  serenely,  with  the  blue  shining  through  the  stems  of 
the  trees  like  painted  glass,  and  not  a  leaf  stirring  ;  the  grass- 
hoppers singing,  flies  sometimes  a  little  troublesome,  ants,  also, 
it  might  be.  Then  you  ate  your  lunch — lounged  a  little  after 
it — perhaps  fell  asleep  in  the  shade,  woke  in  a  dream  of  what- 
ever you  liked  best  to  dream  of, — set  to  work  on  the  afternoon 
sketch, — did  as  much  as  you  could  before  the  glow  of  the 
sunset  began  to  make  everything  beautiful  beyond  painting : 
you  meditated  awhile  over  that  impossible,  put  up  your  paints 
and  book,  and  walked  home,  proud  of  your  day's  work,  and 
peaceful  for  its  future,  to  supper. 

This  is  neither  fancy, — nor  exaggeration.  I  have  myself 
spent  literally  thousands  of  such  days  in  my  forty  years  of 
happy  work  between  1830  and  1870. 

I  say  nothing  of  the  gain  of  time,  temper,  and  steadiness  of 
hand,  under  such  conditions,  as  opposed  to  existing  ones  ; 
but  we  must,  in  charity,  notice  as  one  inevitable  cause  of  the 
loose  and  flimsy  tree-drawing  of  the  moderns,  as  compared 


APPENDIX. 


365 


with  that  of  Titian  or  Mantegna,  the  quite  infinite  difference 
between  the  look  of  blighted  foliage  quivering  in  confusion 
against  a  sky  of  the  colour  of  a  pail  of  whitewash  with  a  little 
starch  in  it ;  and  the  motionless  strength  of  olive  and  laurel 
leaf,  inlaid  like  the  wreaths  of  a  Florentine  mosaic  on  a  ground 
of  lapis-lazuli. 

I  have,  above,  supposed  the  effects  of  these  two  different 
kinds  of  weather  on  mountain  country,  and  the  reader  might 
think  the  difference  of  that  effect  would  be  greatest  in  such 
scenery.  But  it  is  in  reality  greater  still  in  lowlands  ;  and  the 
malignity  of  climate  most  felt  in  common  scenes.  If  the 
heath  of  a  hill  side  is  blighted, — (or  burnt  into  charcoal  by  an 
improving  farmer,)  the  form  of  the  rock  remains,  and  its  im- 
pression of  power.  But  if  the  hedges  of  a  country  lane  are 
frizzled  by  the  plague  wind  into  black  tea, — what  have  you 
left  ?  If  the  reflections  in  a  lake  are  destroyed  by  wind,  its 
ripples  may  yet  be  graceful, — or  its  waves  sublime  ; — but  if 
you  take  the  reflections  out  of  a  ditch,  what  remains  for  you 
— but  ditch-water  ?  Or  again,  if  you  take  the  sunshine  from 
a  ravine  or  a  cliff ;  or  flood  with  rain  their  torrents  or  water- 
falls, the  sublimity  of  their  forms  may  be  increased,  and  the 
energy  of  their  passion  ;  but  take  the  sunshine  from  a  cottage 
porch,  and  drench  into  decay  its  hollyhock  garden,  and  you 
have  left  to  you — how  much  less,  how  much  worse  than 
nothing  ? 

Without  in  the  least  recognizing  the  sources  of  these  evils, 
the  entire  body  of  English  artists,  through  the  space  now  of 
some  fifteen  years,  (quite  enough  to  paralyze,  in  the  young 
ones,  what  in  their  nature  was  most  sensitive,)  have  been  thus 
afflicted  by  the  deterioration  of  climate  described  in  my  lec- 
tures given  this  last  spring  in  London.  But  the  deteriora- 
tions of  noble  subject  induced  by  the  progress  of  manufactures 
and  engineering  are,  though  also  without  their  knowledge, 
deadlier  still  to  them. 

It  is  continually  alleged  in  Parliament  by  the  railroad,  or 
building,  companies,  that  they  propose  to  render  beautiful 
places  more  accessible  or  habitable,  and  that  their  'works' 
will  be,  if  anything,  decorative  rather  than  destructive  to  the 


3CG 


APPENDIX. 


better  civilized  scene.  But  in  all  these  cases,  admitting, 
(though  there  is  no  ground  to  admit)  that  such  arguments 
may  be  tenable,  I  observe  that  the  question  of  sentiment  pro- 
ceeding from  association  is  always  omitted.  And  in  the 
minds  even  of  the  least  educated  and  least  spiritual  artists, 
the  influence  of  association  is  strong  beyond  all  their  con- 
sciousness, or  even  belief. 

Let  me  take,  for  instance,  four  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
picturesque  subjects  once  existing  in  Europe, — Furness  Ab- 
bey, Conway  Castle,  the  Castle  of  Chillon,  and  the  Falls  of 
Schaffhausen.  A  railroad  station  has  been  set  up  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  the  Abbey, — an  iron  railroad  bridge  crosses 
the  Conway  in  front  of  its  castle ;  a  stone  one  crosses  the 
Rhine  at  the  top  of  its  cataract,  and  the  great  Simplon  line 
passes  the  end  of  the  drawbridge  of  Chillon.  Since  these 
improvements  have  taken  place,  no  picture  of  any  of  these 
scenes  has  appeared  by  any  artist  of  eminence,  nor  can  any  in 
future  appear.  Their  portraiture  by  men  of  sense  or  feeling 
has  become  for  ever  impossible.  Discord  of  colour  may  be 
endured  in  a  picture — discord  of  sentiment,  never.  There  is 
no  occasion  in  such  matters  for  the  protest  of  criticism.  The 
artist  turns  unconsciously — but  necessarily — from  the  dis- 
graced noblesse  of  the  past,  to  the  consistent  baseness  of  the 
present ;  and  is  content  to  paint  whatever  he  is  in  the  habit 
of  seeing,  in  the  manner  he  thinks  best  calculated  to  recom- 
mend it  to  his  customers. 

And  the  perfection  of  the  mischief  is  that  the  very  few  who 
are  strong  enough  to  resist  the  money  temptation,  (on  the 
complexity  and  fatality  of  which  it  is  not  my  purpose  here  to 
enlarge,)  are  apt  to  become  satirists  and  reformers,  instead  of 
painters  ;  and  to  lose  the  indignant  passion  of  their  freedom 
no  less  vainly  than  if  they  had  sold  themselves  with  the  rest 
into  slavery.  Thus  Mr.  Herkomer,  whose  true  function  was 
to  show  us  the  dancing  of  Tyrolese  peasants  to  the  pipe  and 
zither,  spends  his  best  strength  in  painting  a  heap  of  promis- 
cuous emigrants  in  the  agonies  of  starvation  :  and  Mr.  Albert 
Goodwin,  whom  I  have  seen  drawing,  with  Turnerian  pre- 
cision, the  cliffs  of  Orvieto  and  groves  of  Vallombrosa,  must 


APPENDIX. 


367 


needs  moralize  the  walls  of  the  Old  Water-colour  Exhibition 
with  a  scattering  of  skeletons  out  of  the  ugliest  scenes  of  the 
'Pilgrim's  Progress/  and  a  ghastly  sunset,  illustrating  the 
progress — in  the  contrary  direction — of  the  manufacturing 
districts.  But  in  the  plurality  of  cases  the  metropolitan 
artist  passively  allows  himself  to  be  metropolized,  and  con- 
tents his  pride  with  the  display  of  his  skill  in  recommending 
things  ignoble.  One  of  quite  the  best,  and  most  admired, 
pieces  of  painting  in  the  same  Old  Water-colour  Exhibition 
was  Mr.  Marshall's  fog  effect  over  the  Westminster  cab-stand  ; 
while,  in  the  Koyal  Institution,  Mr.  Severn  in  like  manner 
spent  all  his  power  of  rendering  sunset  light  in  the  glorifica- 
tion of  the  Westminster  clock  tower.  And  although  some 
faint  yearnings  for  the  rural  or  marine  are  still  unextinguished 
in  the  breasts  of  the  elder  academicians,  or  condescendingly 
tolerated  in  their  sitters  by  the  younger  ones, — though  Mr. 
Leslie  still  disports  himself  occasionally  in  a  punt  at  Henley, 
and  Mr.  Hook  takes  his  summer  lodgings,  as  usual,  on  the 
coast,  and  Mr.  Collier  admits  the  suggestion  of  the  squire's 
young  ladies,  that  they  may  gracefully  be  painted  in  a  storm 
of  primroses, — the  shade  of  the  Metropolis  never  for  an  in- 
stant relaxes  its  grasp  on  their  imagination  ;  Mr.  Leslie  cannot 
paint  the  barmaid  at  the  Angler's  Rest,  but  in  a  pair  of  high- 
heeled  shoes  ;  Mr.  Hook  never  lifts  a  wave  which  would  be 
formidable  to  a  trim-built  wherry  ;  and  although  Mr.  Fildes 
brought  some  agreeable  arrangements  of  vegetables  from 
Venice  ;  and,  in  imitation  of  old  William  Hunt,  here  and 
there  some  primroses  in  tumblers  carried  out  the  sentiment 
of  Mr.  Collier's  on  the  floor, — not  all  the  influence  of  Mr. 
Matthew  Arnold  and  the  Wordsworth  Society  together  ob- 
tained, throughout  the  whole  concourse  of  the  Royal  or  ple- 
beian salons  of  the  town,  the  painting  of  so  much  as  one  prim- 
rose nested  in  its  rock,  or  one  branch  of  wind-tossed  eglantine. 

As  I  write,  a  letter  from  Miss  Alexander  is  put  into  my 
hands,  of  which,  singularly,  the  closing  passage  alludes  to  the 
picture  of  Giorgione's,  which  I  had  proposed,  in  terminating 
this  lecture,  to  give,  as  an  instance  of  the  undisturbed  art  of 
a  faultless  master.    It  is  dated  "  Bassano  Veneto,  May  27th," 


368 


APPENDIX. 


and  a  few  sentences  of  the  preceding  context  will  better  pre- 
sent the  words  I  wish  to  quote. 

"I  meant  to  have  told  you  about  the  delightful  old  lady 
whose  portrait  I  am  taking.  Edwige  and  I  set  out  early  in 
the  morning,  and  have  a  delightful  walk  up  to  the  city,  and 
through  the  clean  little  streets  with  their  low  Gothic  arcades 
and  little  carved  balconies,  full  of  flowers  ;  meeting  nobody 
but  contadini,  mostly  women,  who,  if  we  look  at  them,  bow, 
and  smile,  and  say  '  Serva  sua.'  The  old  lady  told  us  she  was 
always  ready  to  begin  her  sitting  by  six  o'clock,  having  then 
finished  morning  prayers  and  breakfast :  pretty  well  for 
eighty-five,  I  think  :  (she  says  that  is  her  age.)  I  had  forgot- 
ten until  this  minute  I  had  promised  to  tell  you  about  our 
visit  to  Castelfranco.  We  had  a  beautiful  day,  and  had  the 
good  fortune  to  find  a  fair  going  on,  and  the  piazza  full  of  con- 
tadini, with  fruit,  chickens,  etc.,  and  many  pretty  things  in 
wood  and  basket  work.  Always  a  pretty  sight ;  but  it  troubled 
me  to  see  so  many  beggars,  who  looked  like  respectable  old 
people.  I  asked  Loredana  about  it,  and  she  said  they  were 
contadini,  and  that  the  poverty  among  them  was  so  great,  that 
although  a  man  could  live,  poorly,  by  his  work,  he  could 
never  lay  by  anything  for  old  age,  and  when  they  are  past 
work  they  have  to  beg.  I  cannot  feel  as  if  that  were  right,  in 
such  a  rich  and  beautiful  country,  and  it  is  certainly  not  the 
case  on  the  estate  of  Marina  and  Silvia ;  but  I  am  afraid,  from 
what  I  hear,  that  our  friends  are  rather  exceptional  people. 
Count  Alessandro,  Marina's  husband,  always  took  an  almost 
paternal  care  of  his  contadini,  but  with  regard  to  other  con- 
tadini in  these  parts,  I  have  heard  some  heartbreaking  stories, 
which  I  will  not  distress  you  by  repeating.  Giorgione's  Ma- 
donna, whenever  I  see  it,  always  appears  to  me  more  beautiful 
than  the  last  time,  and  does  not  look  like  the  work  of  a  mortal 
hand.  It  reminds  me  of  what  a  poor  woman  said  to  me  once 
in  Florence,  '  What  a  pity  that  people  are  not  as  large  now  as 
they  used  to  be  !  •  and  when  I  asked  her  what  made  her  sup- 
pose that  they  were  larger  in  old  times,  she  said,  looking  sur- 
prised, f  Surely  you  cannot  think  that  the  people  who  built  the 
Duomo  were  no  larger  than  we  are  ?  ' " 


APPENDIX. 


309 


Anima  Toscana  gentillissima, — truly  we  cannot  think  it,  but 
larger  of  heart  than  you,  no  ; — of  thought,  yes. 

It  has  been  held,  I  believe,  an  original  and  valuable  dis- 
covery of  Mr.  Taine's  that  the  art  of  a  people  is  the  natural 
product  of  its  soil  and  surroundings. 

Allowing  the  art  of  Giorgione  to  be  the  wild  fruitage  of 
Castelfranco,  and  that  of  Brunelleschi  no  more  than  the  ex- 
halation of  the  marsh  of  Arno  ;  and  perceiving,  as  I  do,  the 
existing  art  of  England  to  be  the  mere  effluence  of  Grosvenor 
Square  and  Clapham  Junction, — I  yet  trust  to  induce  in  my 
readers,  during  hours  of  future  council,  some  doubt  whether 
Grosvenor  Square  and  Clapham  Junction  be  indeed  the  natu- 
ral and  divinely  appointed  produce  of  the  Valley  of  the 
Thames. 

Brantwood, 

Whit-Tuesday,  1884. 


INDEX. 


Achilles'  shield,  275.    See  Homer,  275. 
Acland,  Dr.  Henry,  his  work  at  Oxford,  347. 

 Sir  Thomas,  his  art  powers  ;  and  Robson,  347. 

Admiration  defined,  272. 

iEGiNA,  marbles  of,  their  enjoyment,  292-293. 

AESCHYLUS,  Dante's  use  of,  277. 

Alexander,  Miss  (« Francesca '),  her  art-gift,  266-267  ;  to  what  it  ap- 
peals, 253  ;  letter  to  Author  from,  quoted,  331,  341  seq.;  her  life, 
265  ;  works  of  :  4  Ida/  266,  297,  314  ;  '  Roadside  Songs  of  Tuscany,' 
drawings  from  ;  plans  for  their  use,  300  ;  twelve  given  to  Oxford, 
329  ;  portrait  of  Beatrice  degli  Ontani,  297-298  ;  portrait  of  St. 
Christopher,  299-300;  preface  to,  quoted,  297,  312. 

Allingham,  Mrs.,  her  art-gift,  312;  children  by,  311;  4  Tea-partv,' 
312  ;  1  Toyshop,'  ib. 

Alma  Tadema.    See  Tadema,  286. 

America,  authors  prejudice  against.  265;  engraving  in,  325;  govern- 
ment survey  of  U.  S.,  302  ;  South,  illustrations  of,  323. 
Angelico,  children  by,  310  ;  best  works  of,  at  Rome,  337,  357. 
Animals,  fables  about,  305-306. 
"  Animus"  defined,  284. 
*  Arabian  Nights,'  the,  273. 
Aristophanes,  use  of  myths  by,  275. 
Arnold,  Mr.  Matthew,  365. 

Art  :  ancient,  its  methods  inadequate,  275-276  ;  centralization  fatal  to, 
358;  for  children  to  be  graceful  and  serious  305-306  ;  children  and 
legendary  art,  301  ;  Christianity  and,  261,  267  ;  creative  and 
realistic,  283  ;  criticism  of,  355;  decline  of,  its  period,  340  ;  delight 
of  artists  in  their  work,  338  ;  didactic,  English  dislike  of.  282  ; 
English,  its  recent  development,  354;  European,  its  rise,  287;  and 
fall,  287  ;  execution,  mystery  of  idea  no  ground  for  bad,  278  ;  for 
both  noble  conception  and  good  work  are  needed,  280 ;  finish  in, 
269,  292  ;  great,  is  delicate,  316  ;  great,  is  praise,  283  ;  is  provincial, 
358  ;  imitation  and  suggestion  in,  279  ;  legendary,  and  children, 
301 ;  masterpiece  of,  ground  of  delight  in  a,  320  ;  materials  provided 
by  nature,  and  the  needs  of,  320  ;  multiplication  of,  its  methods, 
319  ;  national,  to  be  studied  in  its  rise,  286 ;  patronage,  356  ;  the 
product  of  a  nation's  surroundings,  367  ;  public  appreciation  of,  356  ; 
realistic,  283  ;  and  see  Realism  ;  romantic,  338  seq.;  salability  of, 
360;  schools  of,  head  and  body,  291 ;  are  provincial,  not  metropol- 
itan, 357  ;  sight,  the  unaided,  and,  316  ;  study  of,  286  ;  surround- 
ings of,  the,  354  ;  teaching  in  Oxford,  see  Author,  254. 


372 


INDEX. 


Arthur,  King,  330. 

Artist,  no  English,  altogether  right,  355  ;  life  of,  in  great  cities,  358  ; 

effect  of  modern  weather  on,  363. 
Athena,  her  presence  to  be  imagined,  304. 
Athleticism,  useful  and  useless,  280,  299. 

Author,  the.  1.  Personal. — His  education,  books  '  Evenings  at  Home.' 
308  ;  fairy  stories,  302  ;  taught  by  Copley  Fielding,  343  ;  his  feel- 
ings, not  talked  of  by  him,  258  ;  his  friends,  young  artists  among-, 
202  ;  "  laudator  temporis  acti,"  335  ;  his  love  of  colour,  258;  land- 
scape, 386  ;  mountains,  346  ;  {e.g.  Ben  Lomond,  347),  music,  258  ; 
sunshine,  ib.;  his  manners  as  a  critic,  356;  painting  days  spent  in 
1830-49,  361  ;  his  prejudice  against  Americans,  265  ;  his  sight  the 
same  in  age  and  youth,  349  ;  Swiss  inns  liked  better  than  Genoese 
palaces  by,  321 ;  his  religion,  259  ;  at  Brantwood,  May  20,  18b4 
(weather  described),  359  ;  at  Royal  Academy,  etc.,  1883,  284,  357  ; 
and  at  Grosvenor  Gallery,  358  ;  in  Venice  (1876)  teaches  young  lady 
to  draw,  264  ;  (1880)  copies  Carpaccio's  St.  Ursula,  291.  SeeCoxis- 
ton,  Fielding,  Leighton,  and  Marociietti,  293,  348,  278. 

2.  Teaching  of. — On  art,  he  teaches  what  is.  not  what  he  thinks, 
beautiful,  258  ;  on  landscape,  his  early  works,  254  ;  later  lect- 
ures on,  unpublished,  337  ;  likes  minute  work,  270  ;  said  to 
teach  people  to  see,  258  ;  study  of  head  and  body,  291,  300  ;  on 
clouds  and  sky,  his  early  work,  350  (see  4<  Clouds")  ;  Oxford  work, 
resumes  the  chair,  253  ;  plans  for,  255,  263,  281,  337,  352  ;  pupils, 
335;  Tintoret  given  to,  335;  Turners  given  to,  318;  Political 
Economy,  paradoxes  of  his,  319. 

3.  His  Writings. — (a)  General  Character  : — courteous  tone  of  his 
comments,  356  ;  cannot  express  all  he  sees,  258,  259  ;  impulse  of 
his  best.  355;  romantic  love  of  his  subject,  ib.;  serious  parts  of, 
263  ;  sermons,  his  art  lectures  not  to  be  ib. 

(b)  Particular  works  referred  to:  — 
4  Aratra  Pentelici,'  on  portraiture  and  Greek  art,  291. 
4  Adriadne  Florentina,'  on  Florentine  engraving,  314  ;  on  methods 

of  wood-cutting,  324. 
'  Art  of  England,'  notes  to,  to  be  avoided,  270  ;  object  of,  356  ;  plan 

of,  336  ;  its  style,  356. 
4  Fors  Clavigera.'  No  340  ;  on  Scott's  scenery,  342  ;  passim,  squires 

to  live  on  their  lands,  346. 
4  Laws  of  Fesole,'  general  teaching  of,  290  ;  great  art  is  praise,  283  ; 

tests  of  good  colour,  326. 
'Modem  Painters.'  its  aim,  339;  on  the  Dutch  school,  271  ;  Vol. 

II.  on  admiration,  273;  III.  on  Peter  drowning,  270;  V.  on  ■ 

mountains,  350;  on  the  sky,  350;  on  the  4  Two  Boyhoods,' 

358  seq. 

1  Our  Fathers  have  told  us  '  ('  Bible  of  Amiens,'  p.  14),  322. 

*  Queen  of  the  Air,'  on  myths,  275 

4  Storm  Cloud  of  Nineteenth  Century,'  359  el  seq. 

Barrett  and  the  Old  Water  Colour  Society,  338. 
Beatrice  d^gli  Ontani.    See  Alexander,  298. 
Beauty,  and  goodness,  297  ;  dependent  on  law,  297-298. 
Belief.    See  Faith,  Fancy,  303. 
Benedictine  MS.,  Monte  Cassino,  286. 


INDEX. 


373 


Berlin,  Holbein's  '  George  Guysen,'  202. 
Bertha,  Queen,  the  spinner,  290. 

Bewick,  draws  children  in  mischief  only,  311  ;  magnifying  glass  needed 
f©rhis  vignettes,  264;  can  draw  a  pig,  but  not  a  girl,  857*.  plumage 
in  his  woodcuts,  824. 

Bible,  the,  and  Roman  Catholics,  290. 

Bible,  quoted  : — 


'And  God  saw  that  it  was  good  ' 

Genesis  i.  10 

.    page  297 

'  He  naaketh  mo  to  lie  down  in  green  pas- 

tures '  

Psalm  xxiii.  2 

M  317 

'  Tho  chariots  of  God  are  twenty  thousand  ! 

'  Buy  the  truth  and  sell  it  not '  . 

'The  weaned  child  shall  put  his  hand  on 

Psalm  Ixviii.  17 

"  354 

Proverbs  xxiii.  23  . 

"  352 

the  cockatrice'  den ' 

Isaiah  xii.  S 

"  303 

'  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children  because 

Jeremiah  xxxi.  15 

"  SCO 

1  He  hath  put  down  the  mighty  '       .  . 

Luke  i.  52 

u  tis 

'  My  peace  1  leave  with  you  '     .       .  . 

John  xiv.  27  . 

M  203 

'  Peter  girt  his  lisher's  coat  unto  him  ' 

John  xxi.  7 

u  270 

*  Gallio  cared  for  none  of  those  things  ' 

Acts  xviii.  17  .  . 

317 

1  More  than  conquerors  through  him  that 

loved  them '  

Romans,  viii.  .37 

•«  m 

'  No  death,  neither  sorrow,  nor  crying  ' 

Revelation  xxi.  4. 

"  200 

Birkett  Foster.    See  Foster,  312. 
Blake's  'Job,'  307. 

Books  :  on  art,  rarity  of  good,  268  ;  cheap,  their  result,  352  ;  choice  of, 
by  public  libraries  265  ;  French,  on  science  for  a  child,  323-324, 
350  ;  illustrations  in  modern,  301  srq.,  313. 

Botticelli,  Sandro,  classic  and  Gothic  art  united  in,  287  ;  frescoes  on 
education,  290-291  ;  Favonian  breeze,  272. 

Brantwood,  weather  at  (May  20,  1884),  359  srq. 

Brett,  John,  sunshine  in  his  pictures,  257. 

British  Museum,  Elgin  marbles,  but  no  Gothic  marbles  in  the,  284; 

Girtin's  and  Cousin's  drawings,  342. 
Bull,  John,  the  farmer,  332  ;  'defends  his  pudding,'  334. 
Burgmaier's  woodcuts  of  heraldry,  324. 

Burne- Jones,  E. ,  chiaroscuro  of,  280;  colour  of,  281  ;  educated  at 
Oxford,  276;  friend  of  W.  Morris,  277;  of  Rossetti,  273;  a  hero- 
worshipper.  283  ;  knowledge  of  mythology,  277  ;  outline  perfect, 
280  ;  personification,  his  gilt,  273 ;  photographs  from  his  pictures, 
282-283;  pictures  of:  'Danae'  (Oxford  schools),  280  ;  'Pars  of 
Creation,'  273,  278  ;  '  Miss  Gladstone  '  (portrait  of),  281  ;  '  Medea  ' 
(Oxford  schools),  281  ;  k  Psyche'  (Oxford  galleries),  280  ;  'Wheel 
of  Fortune,'  278. 

Burns,  on  children,  '  toddlin'  wee  things,'  311  ;  romance  in,  7. 

Butler,  Mrs.  (Elizabeth  Thompson),  334. 

Byron,  and  landscape  art.  342  ;  morbid  (l  Childe  Harold  '),  337  ;  moun- 
tains, his  love  of,  346;  romantic.  255  ;  quoted,  "You  have  the 
Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet "  ('  Don  Juan,'  iii.  86.  10),  295. 

Cagliari,  best  works  of,  at  Venice,  357. 
Caldecott,  M.  Chesneau  on,  313. 
Camilla,  295. 

Campbell,  Lord  G.,  'Log  letters  from  the  u Challenger,"  '  309. 
Caricature,  327.    See  '  Punch.' 


374 


INDEX. 


Carlyle,  T.,  on  the  British  Lion,  333;  on  Correggio's  correggiosities, 

357  ;  *  Sartor  Resartns,'  288. 
Carpaccio,  offensive  to  practical  Englishmen,  282  ;  S.  Ursula,  291. 
Catholics,  old,  view  of  the  Bible,  256. 
Centralization,  fatal  to  art,  357. 
*  Century  Magazine,'  on  the  "  demoniac  sunset,"  323. 
Certificates  of  merit  at  Oxford,  author's  plan  for  art,  267. 
Character  and  faces,  329-330. 
'  Charivari,'  the,  327. 

Charles  II.  destroys  English  morality,  339  ;  coins  of,  vulgar,  ib. 
Cheapness,  no  such  thing  as,  319. 

Chesneau,  M.  Ernest,  his  style  and  value,  313  ;  quoted  on  English 
art,  314. 

Chiaroscuro,  in  engraving,  326. 

Children,  in  art  and  literature,  309-310  ;  no,  in  Greek  art,  or  Gothic 
till  1200,  309  ;  art  for,  to  be  graceful  and  serious,  305-306  ;  and  leg- 
endary art,  301  ;  imagination  and  invention  to  be  stimulated,  302- 
303  ;  and  fairy  stories, —are  they  to  be  told  true  stories  only  ?  302  ; 
4  Punch's,'  327  ;  toys  for,  302-303. 

Chillon,  the  railroad  near,  364. 

Chivalry,  rise  of,  296. 

Christian  art  and  classicism.  277  ;  and  the  peace  of  God,  300. 
Christianity,  imparts  feeling  for  womanhood  and  children,  310 ;  its 

doctrine  of  human  happiness  and  pain,  261. 
Christmas  books,  modern,  308-309. 
ClMABTJE'S  4  Borgo,'  343. 

Cities,  monstrous  architecture  of  modern,  358  ;  consequent  decline  of 
art  in  them,  ib.  ;  hugeness  of,  336  ;  their  misery,  312. 

Classic,  means  anti-Gothic,  284 ;  and  Gothic  art,  276  ;  their  conti- 
nuity, 284-285  ;  union  of,  in  N.  Pisano's  pulpit,  287 ;  no  portraiture 
in  classic  art,  291. 

Claude's  sunshine  colourless,  258. 

Clifton,  Prof.,  of  Oxford,  348. 

Clouds,  always  look  like  clouds  only,  350;  and  Greek  art,  317;  all 

lovely,  are  quiet  and  motionless,  354;  in  modern  weather,  361. 
Cockatrice,  fairy  story  about  a,  308. 
Coins,  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Charles  H.,  339. 
Collier,  Mr.,  primroses  by,  305. 

Colour,  Greek  art  and,  280  ;  in  early  landscape,  342  ;  in  portraiture, 

281  ;  maxim  as  to.  lt  all  white  precious  all  black  conspicuous,"  326; 

our  sensitiveness  to,  and  delight  in,  varies  with  our  moods,  349  ; 

our  sight  for,  unchanging  in  age,  ib.;  printing,  301  ;  vivid  radiance 

cannot  be  given  by,  348 
Commerce,  John  Bull  the  shopkeeper,  332. 
Competition  in  education,  268. 
Completeness  of  work  in  art.  its  difficulty,  281. 

Coniston  4  Old  Man,'  clouds  over,  motionless,  353  ;  school,  music  for, 
334. 

Constantine,  cr owned  in  England,  333. 
Conway,  railroad  over  the,  364. 
Copley  Fielding.    See  Fielding,  348. 
'  Cornhill  Magazine,'  April,  1883,  302. 
Correctness  in  drawing,  278. 


INDEX. 


375 


Correggio,  colour-blending  of,  294  ;  correggiosities  of,  357  ;  best  works 

of,  at  Parina,  357  ;  cannot  be  wood-engraved,  326. 
Costume.    See  Dress. 
Cousins'  water-colours,  342. 
Cox,  David,  his  inventive  power  small,  344, 
Crabs,  stories  of,  309. 

Crane,  Walter,  M.  Ernest  Chesneau  on,  313. 
Criticism,  the  function  of  true,  is  qualified  praise,  355. 
Crystal  Palace,  examples  of  Gothic  architecture  in,  286* 
Curzon's  travels  in  the  East,  343. 
CCYP's  sunshine  colourless,  258. 

Dante,  use  of  JEschylus  by,  in  the  '  Inferno,'  277  ;  quoted  (*  Purgatory  1 

xiv.  93),  304. 
Darling,  Grace,  299. 

Davis',  W.  B.,  'Highland  Moor,'  (R.  A.  1882,)  257. 

De  Wint,  338  ;  small  inventive  power,  344. 

Delicacy  of  great  art,  316. 

Design  in  creation,  a  proof  of,  320. 

Dew  on  flowers,  effect  on  their  colour,  348. 

Dickens  on  children,  311  ;  k  David  Copperfield,'  311  ;  '  Hard  Times,' 

302  ;  '  Mrs.  Lirriper's  Lodgings,'  332  ;  i  Old  Curiosity  Shop,'  311. 
D'Israeli,  '  Punch's  '  treatment  of,  328. 
Doll,  author's  cousin  and  her  armless,  303. 
Domestic  spirit  of  nineteenth  century,  268. 
Donatello's  children,  262. 
Dramatic  school  in  art,  its  truth,  274. 
Drapery  of  Reynolds  and  Gainsborough,  288. 

Dress,  national  (in  Norway),  and  the  fashion,  265  ;  painting  of,  in 
Gothic  art,  287. 

Du  Maurier,  does  not  caricature,  327  ;  keen  observation  of,  ib.  ;  his 
power,  326-327  ;  woodcuts  of,  their  method,  325-326  ;  pictures  of  : 
*  Alderman  Sir  Robert,'  326  ;  '  London  Mechanic,'  the,  328  ;  1  Mrs. 
Ponsonby  de  Tomkyns,'  325  ;  '  Lady  Midas,'  ib,  ;  *  Herr  Professor,' 
332. 

Durers  Apocalypse,  307. 

Dutch  school,  the,  '  Modern  Painters '  on,  270  ;  picture  of  in  National 
Gallery,  described,  339  seq. 

Education,  choice  of  books,  265  ;  is  everyone  to  learn  to  read  ?  265  ; 

not  a  means  of  livelihood,  352. 
Elephant,  absurd  story  of  an,  308. 
Elgin  marbles,  284. 

England,  artists  of,  never  altogether  right,  356 ;  engraving  in,  and  its 
decline,  314;  former  greatness  of,  333;  her  hope,  in  her  youth, 
334  ;  John  Bull  the  farmer,  no  longer  typical,  332  ;  4  defends  his 
pudding,'  334  ;  landscape  art,  257  ;  the  youth  of,  their  beauty  and 
energy,  335. 

Engraving,  chiaroscuro  in,  326  ;  decline  of  modern.  314  :  English  and 
Florentine,  314  ;  line,  320  ;  modern  methods  of,  326-327  ;  wood  and 
steel  engraving,  comparative  difficulty  of,  322. 

Etching,  labour  of.  322. 

Etruscan  people,  character  and  life  of,  297.  '  f 


376 


INDEX. 


Europe,  the  capitals  of,  their  degraded  architecture.  358. 
Exhibitions,  art,  new  and  old,  310  ;  of  only  one  man's  work,  a  mis- 
take, 350. 

Fables  for  children,  about  animals,  etc.,  307-308. 
Fairies,  in  literature  and  art,  305  seq. 
Fairy-land,  Lect.  IV.;  fairy  stories,  301-302,  306-311. 
Faith,  is  to  trust  without  evidence,  303  ;  its  freedom  and  responsibility, 
302. 

Fancy,  modern  extinction  of  the,  304  ;  and  faith,  303  ;  fostering  of  the, 
304. 

Features  and  character,  331. 
'  Fides,'  denned,  284. 

FIELDING,  Copley,  atmospheric  effects  of,  344-345  ;  author  taught  by, 
343  ;  and  author's  father,  his  first  art  purchase  a  picture  by,  343  ; 
inventive  power  of,  limited,  344  ;  Turner's  effect  on,  338  ;  vegeta- 
tion of,  348  ;  'Cader  Idris,'  348  ;  in  Oxford  Galleries,  341-342. 

Figure,  drawing  of  the,  and  the  rise  of  art,  286  ;  study,  at  Oxford, 
830-331. 

Fildes,  Mr.  Luke,  Venetian  pictures  of,  365. 

Fisher,  Mr. ,  and  the  Oxford  Galleries,  282. 

Flemish  school,  children  of  the,  310  ;  manner  of  the,  271. 

'  Flight  into  Egypt,'  painting  of,  by  H.  Hunt  and  others,  261. 

Florence,  palaces  of,  321 ;  {Spanish  Chapel,  frescoes,  290  ;  Uffizi,  per« 

feet  portrait  in  the,  292. 
Fortune's  wheel,  idea  of,  274. 
Foster,  Birkett,  children  by,  312. 
Franc  esc  a.    See  Alexander,  265. 

French  modern  art,  357  :  book  on  science  for  a  child.  4  Les  Pourquoi 
de  Mile.  Suzanne,'  323,  350  ;  contempt  for  provincial  art,  357  ; 
landscape,  modern,  344  •  language,  essentially  critical,  313  ;  Revo- 
lution, 310. 

Frere,  E.,  children  by,  811. 

Furness  Abbey,  railroad  near,  364. 

Fu UN itu RE,  aesthetic,  321. 

Gaboriau,  345. 

Gainsborough,  formal  340  ;  Gothic,  2P6 ;  greatness  of  288;  and  Rey- 
nolds. 355  ;  last  words  of  <;i  Vandyke  is  of  the  company  "),  286  ; 
pictures  by  :  '  Blue  Boy,'  288  ;  *  Mrs.  Graham,'  ib.  ;  1  Miss  Heath- 
field  '  ib.  ;  large  work  (No.  789),  4  Portraits  of  J.  Baillie  and  his 
family,'  in  National  Gallery,  339. 

Genoa,  palaces  of,  821. 

Gentleman,  essentials  of  a,  Horace  on  the,  284. 
Ghlbertt,  gates  ol,  821. 

Gtorgione,  his  home,  Venice,  358  ;  his  'Madonna'  (Florence),  366. 
Girtin,  T.,  water-colours  of,  342  ;  waterfall  by  (British  Museum),  345 
Gladstone,  W.  E.,  'Punch'  on,  328. 

 Miss,  portrait  of,  by  Burne-Jones,  281. 

Glaucus'  armour  295. 
Goethe,  'Faust,'  387  ;  morbid  side  of,  ib. 
Good,  all  is  bought  with  toil  and  tears,  259. 
Goodness  and  beauty  297. 


INDEX. 


377 


Goodwin,  Mr.  Albert,  pictures  of  (Old  Water-colour  Society,  1844),  -865. 

GOTHIC  art,  no  children  in,  till  1200  A.D.,  310  ;  and  classic,  284 ;  their 
continuity,  284-285  ;  and  union  in  N.  Fisano  s  pulpit,  287  ;  por- 
traiture, especially  Gothic,  291  ;  period  to  study— in  England,  up  to 
Black  Prince,  in  France,  up  to  S.  Louis,  287  ;  writing,  286. 

Grace  in  art,  305. 

Great  men  belong  to  their  own  village,  287,  332. 

Greek  art,  bodily  beauty  and,  294  ;  chiaroscuro  in,  280,  295  ;  no  chil- 
dren in,  293,  310 ;  colour  in,  sense  of.  weak,  280  ;  conception  lofty 
in,  ib.  /formalism  of,  339  ;  the  ideal  in  (Homer  quoted  on),  294- 
295  ;  period  to  study, Homer  to  Marathon,  287  ;  portraiture  destroys, 
291  ;  is  praise  of  Greek  virtues,  267  ;  and  the  glory  of  war,  287,  300. 

Greenaway,  Kate,  M.  Chesneau  on,  313  seq.  ;  children  of,  311  ;  delicacy 
of,  316;  decorative  qualities  of,  315-316;  design  of,  ornamental, 
ib.  ;  fairies,  314  ;  genius  of,  811  ;  can  draw  a  girl,  but  not  a  pig,  357; 
landscape  of,  simple,  316-317;  minuteness  of,  314  ;  pencil-work  of, 
314  ;  to  paint  pictures,  not  decorate  books,  315  ;  public,  the,  to 
whom  her  work  appeals,  319  ;  realism  in,  317  ;  reproductions  of  her 
works  might  be  better,  815  seq. 

Greenaway,  K.,  brother  of,  his  photographs,  325. 

Guido,  cannot  be  reproduced  in  wood-cutting,  326. 

Happiness,  doctrine  of,  260. 

Harmonicon,  for  Coniston  school,  legend  on,  334. 

Hart  wig,  Dr.,  on  Norway,  quoted,  264. 

Heaven,  the  question  is,  are  we  going  towards,  281. 

Henry  VIII. ,  destroys  English  religion,  339  ;  coins  of,  vulgar,  ib. 

Herkomer,  Mr.,  his  proper  and  his  actual  subjects,  364. 

Hero-worship,  admiration  is  mainly,  272  ;  of  painters,  283. 

Hesiod,  on  Hercules'  shield,  276. 

Hogarth,  M.  Chesneau  on,  313. 

Holbein,  286  ;  delineation  of,  327  ;  '  George  Guysen  '(Berlin  Museum), 
292. 

Homer,  on  shield  of  Achilles,  276  ;  on  Achilles  on  the  ramparts  (Iliad, 

xviii.  203-6,  225-7),  294. 
Hook,  Mr  ,  his  sea  pictures,  365. 
Hope,  denned,  273. 
Horace,  quoted,  285. 

Hunt,  Holmaii,  and  the  Bible,  his  view  and  Rossetti's,  255  ;  as  a 
colourist,  256  ;  chiaroscuro  of,  intense  light,  261  (see  below,  "sun- 
shine"); children  by,  272  ;  hero-worship,  283;  invention,  swift 
grace  of,  261  ;  material  veracity  of,  269  ;  Rossetti's  disciple,  255; 
Rossetti  compared  with  him,  256-257  ;  sunshine  of,  257-258,  259  ; 
works  bv  :  'Awakening  Conscience,'  256;  4  Claudio  and  Isabel.' 
256  ;  'Flight  into  Egypt,'  260-261  ;  *  Light  of  the  World,'  256  ; 
'Scapegoat,'  259  ;  4  Strayed  Sheep,'  its  greatness,  marks  an  era  in 
art,  257  ;  'Valentine  and  Sylvia,'  256. 

Hunt,  William,  338  ;  limited  power  of,  357. 

Ida,'  «  The  Story  of.    See  Alexander,  298,  314. 
Ideas,  painting  of,  288. 

Illustrations,  modem  popular,  319  seq.  See  Books,  Newspapers. 
Imagination,  of  children  to  be  stimulated,  321  ;  conceives  beautifully 


378 


INDEX. 


amid  beauty,  288  ;  does  not  create,  but  reveals,  318 ;  of  great  men, 
visionary,  307  ;  after  the  Renaissance,  its  reawakening,  341  ;  and 
repose  of  mind,  353. 

Infidelity,  modern,  303. 

Inge,  Mrs. ,  on  Robson,  346. 

Ingelow,  Miss,  'Stories  told  to  a  Child,'  332. 

Invention,  in  children,  to  be  stimulated,  303. 

1  Iolanthe,'  allusion  to,  306. 

Iphigenia,  259. 

Isaac,  259. 

Italy,  art  of  modern,  357  ;  comic  journals  of,  327  ;  peasantry  and  poor 
of,  264-265. 

Japanese  art,  280  ;  book  of  stories  (Macmillan,  1871),  309. 

John  Bull.    See  Bull,  332. 

Jones,  E.  Burne.    See  Burne-Jones,  280-281. 

Keats,  sadness  of,  347  ;  quoted,  "  A  thing  of  beauty,"  320. 
Kensington  Museum,  examples  of  Gothic  architecture  at,  284. 
Kent,  wood-carving  of,  321. 

Kinglake,  on  the  press,  304  ;  his  travels  in  the  East,  344. 
Knowledge,  divinity  and  value  of,  352. 
'  Knowledge,'  bad  illustrations  to,  323. 

Labour,  good,  bought  with  toil  and  tears,  259. 
Lady-artist  in  Venice,  1876,  263. 

Landscape,  author's  love  of,  336;  and  "unaided  nature,"  316  ;  art, 
recent  and  already  declining,  336 ;  art,  as  influenced  by  Byron  and 
Scott,  342  ;  especially  English,  342  ;  French,  manner  of  modern, 
344  ;  and  the  Old  Water-colour  Society,  338  ;  Richard  Wilson  and, 
341  seq.    See  Green  aw  ay.  314. 

LanDseer's  'Shepherd's  Chief  Mourner,'  266. 

Law,  a  thing  of  beauty  a  law  for  ever,  297. 

Leech,  John,  M.  Chesneau  on,  313  ;  genius  of,  327 ;  kindness  of,  327 ; 
founds  'Punch,' 327  ;  satire  of,  329;  wood-cutting,  325;  pictures 
of  :  4  Miss  Alice  riding,'  his  best  sketch,  328  ;  *  Distinguished  For- 
eigner,' 342. 

Leighton,  Sir  F.,  anatomy  of,  292;  children  by,  ib.  ;  Correggio-like 
'vaghezza'  of,  293  ;  figure-study  of,  293  ;  Gothic  spirit  of,  291;  his 
house,  304  ;  drawings  of  4  Byzantine  well,'  293  ;  lemon- tree,  ib. 

Leopold,  Prince,  and  the  Turner  drawings  at  Oxford,  254. 

'  Les  Pourquoi  de  Mile.  Suzanne 1  (see  Science),  322-350. 

Leslie,  Mr.,  Thames  pictures  by,  365. 

Lewis,  John,  technical  accuracy  of,  294. 

Librarian,  proper  function  of  a  public,  265.    See  Norway,  265. 
Libraries  in  Norway,  265. 

Liebreich,  "foreign  oculist,"  on  changes  of  sight,  349. 

Light,  sense  of,  in  art  and  poetry,  295  ;  and  cloud,  in  Greek  art,  317. 

See  Sunshine. 
'  Light  of  the  World.'   See  Hunt,  H.,  255. 
Lily,  author's  cousin,  and  her  doll,  303. 

Lindsay.  Lord,  his  book  on  u  Christian  art,"  276 ;  division  Qf  Christian 

art  into  spiritual  (head)  and  fleshly  (body),  291. 
Line-drawing,  326. 


INDEX. 


379 


'Lingua,'  defined,  284. 
Lion,  the  British,  332-333. 

Literature.    See  Books,  Children,  Newspapers,  311. 
London,  as  an  art-school,  358  ;  its  effect  on  artists,  364  seq.;  its  misery, 
328. 

Love,  defined,  273. 

Luca  dell  a  Robbia,  children  of,  266,  310  ;  4  Nativity  '  by,  story  of 

child  kissing,  289  ;  unites  Classic  and  Gothic  art,  286. 
Luini,  children  by,  310  ;  his  best  works  at  Milan,  271,  357. 
Lycurgus,  the  laws  of,  and  beauty,  297. 

Macdonald,  A.  (author's  assistant  at  Oxford),  254,  351  ;  copy  of  Turner 
by,  318. 

Magazines,  modern  cheap,  322. 

Manchester  Exhibition  1851,  296. 

Mantegna's  tree  drawing,  363. 

Manufacturers  and  children,  311;  English,  332. 

Marks,  H.  Stacey,  his  pictures  '  The  Professor,'  'Three  Postboys/ 

<  Lord  Say  and  Jack  Cade/  293. 
Marochetti,  qualities  of  greatness,  278  ;  his  '  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,' 

ib.;  sees  Rossetti's  drawings  at  Heme  Hill,  ib. 
Marriage,  honour  to,  298. 

Marshall,  Mr.  Herbert,  pictures  of  (Old  Water-colour  Society,  1884), 
365. 

Materialistic  conception  of  Rossetti  and  Hunt,  254,  269.  See  Real- 
ism, 318. 

Microscope,  use  of  the,  in  seeing  art,  316.    See  Bewick,  264. 

Millais,  J.  E.,  'Caller  Herrin,*  a  Pre-Raphaelite  work,  271. 

Mino  da  Fessole,  children  by,  310. 

Minuteness  of  work  in  art,  270. 

Misery,  260  ;  of  the  poor  in  London,  328. 

Missals,  Gothic,  285. 

Mist,  Scotch,  342. 

Mitford,  Miss,  and  feeling  for  children,  311. 
Modernism,  selfish  greed  of,  259.    See  Infidelity,  303. 
Monte  Cassino,  Benedictine  MS.  at,  286. 
Moral  philosophy  and  Greek  myths,  287. 
Moran  (American  artist),  302. 
'Mores'  defined,  284. 

Morris,  W.,  lecture  on  *  Art  and  Plutocracy,' 352  ;  friendship  with 
Burne- Jones,  277  ;  maxim  that  excellence  of  work  depends  on  our 
joy  in  it,  348  ;  on  mythology,  276. 

Mountains,  love  of,  in  Scott,  Byron,  and  Wordsworth,  author's  early, 
^.,346. 

Mouse,  fables  of  town  and  country,  etc.,  308. 
Murray,  A. ,  on  Greek  sculpture  (Achilles1  shield),  275. 

 ,  C.  F.,  his  copies  of  Botticelli's  frescoes  on  education,  289. 

Muses,  the  laws  of  the,  297. 

Musical  instrument  for  Coniston  school,  334. 

Mystery,  idea  of,  in  ancient  art,  295  ;  of  conception,  no  excuse  for 
careless  treatment,  278. 

Mythic  art,  its  teaching  and  truth,  274  ;  dislike  of,  by  practical  peo- 
ple, 282. 


380 


INDEX. 


Mythology,  273  ;  men's  wisest  thoughts  expressed  in,  275  ;  painting  of 
old,  by  a  modern  painter,  his  function,  27(5. 

Myths,  in  art,  with  what  precision  to  be  given,  276  ;  defined,  274  ;  de- 
velopment of,  274;  moral  philosophy  and,  275  ;  power  of  noble, 
276  ;  how  far  representative  of  the  ideas  they  symbolize,  275. 

National  Gallery,  pictures  badly  hung  in  the,  271,  340  ;  Turner 

drawings  in  its  cellars,  336.    See  Teniers,  340  ;  Vanderneer, 

340;  Vandyke,  310. 
National  unity,  impossible,  288.    See  Great  men,  287,  332. 
Nature,  author's  love  of,  255  seq.  ;  beauty  of  untouched,  316-318  ; 

feeling  for,  272  ;  materials  of,  adapted  to  art,  320. 
Newspapers,  illustrated,  good  portraiture  in  the,  291;  influence  of, 

304  ;  Italian  comic,  327. 
Niccola  Pisano,   engrafts  classicism  on  Christian  art,  276  ;  unites 

Classic  and  Gothic  art,  e.g.,  his  pulpit,  287. 
Nineteenth  century,  domestic  spirit  of,  268.    See  Modernism,  259. 
Nitro-glycerine,  compels  belief,  303. 

Norway,  peasant  life  in,  264  ;  every  town  has  its  library,  265. 
Numa,  297. 

Old-fashioned,  distinction  of  being,  262. 

Old  Water  Colour  Society,  in  former  years,  338  ;  Exhibition  (1884),  365. 

Oroagna,  307  ;  imaginative  vision  of,  307. 

Oriental  art,  285. 

Ouida's  'Village  Commune.'  266. 

Oxford, — education  the  ford  of  life.  300  ;  but  not  a  means  of  liveli- 
hood, 352  ;  motto,  295  ;  town  ruined  by  improvements,  317,  330, 
351;  Magdalen  Bridge,  widened,  300;  Museum,  and  Dr.  Acland, 
347  ;  St.  John's  gardens  318  ;  Schools,  the  new,  330 ;  Taylorian 
(Ruskin  Art  Schools  and  Galleries),  catalogues  to,  336  ;  author's 
plans  for  certificates  of  merit,  etc  ,  267,  348,  353 ;  figure-study  at, 
329  ;  limited  room  in,  330  ;  pictures,  etc.,  in  ;  Bewick's  woodcuts, 
324;  Burgmaier's  woodcuts,  ib.;  legend  on  a  harmonicon,  334; 
drawing  by  Copley  Fielding,  343  ;  «  Sunset  at  Home,'  345  ;  Tintoret, 
'Doge  Mocenigo/  335  ;  Turner  drawings,  254,  318- 

Pain,  pleasure  not  its  outcome,  260. 

Painter,  difficulty  of  finish,  281  ;  to  paint  what  he  sees,  not  what  he 

wishes  to  see,  350. 
Painting,  manner  of  compelled  by  realism,  270. 
Palmerston,  'Punch'  on,  328. 
Paris,  Louvre,  Botticelli's  frescoes  in  the.  289. 
Parliament,  Houses  of,  Watts'  designs  for  frescoes,  281. 
Paton,  Sir  Noel,  fairy  pictures  of  4  Titania,'  'Fairy  Raid,'  306. 
Pencil,  the  best  instrument  for  fine  work,  314. 
Personal  feelings  expressible  only  in  poetry,  258. 
Personification  in  art  273. 

Perugino,  children  by.  310  ;  crowns  Gothic  art,  285. 
Peter,  drowning  of,  '  Modern  Painters '  on  the,  269. 
Pets,  children's,  304. 

Photographs  and  art,  291 ;  of  Burne-Jones'  pictures,  281  ;  and  por- 
traiture, 281. 
Physiognomy,  study  of,  and  character,  331. 


INDEX. 


381 


Picardy,  wood-carving  of,  323. 

Pictures,  only  recently  made  a  common  means  of  decoration,  301. 

Pindar,  myths  of,  275. 

Pisa,  Niccola  Pisano's  pulpit  at,  287. 

Pitt,  tlie  lesson  to  be  learnt,  261. 

Plato,  myths  used  by,  for  his  highest  teaching,  275  ;  on  finish  in 

painting  (u  Laws  '  quoted),  290. 
Pleasure,  not  the  outcome  of  pain,  260. 

Poetry,  boldness  of  expression  in  great,  351  ;  the  only  means  of  giving 

personal  feelings,  258  ;  perfect,  precedes  perfect  painting,  285. 
Political  economy,  author's  paradoxes  of,  319. 
Pompeian  art,  specimen  of,  287. 

Poor,  the,  and  beauty,  329  ;  dwellings  of,  to  be  orderly,  or  there  can  be 

no  art,  319  ;  misery  of,  260.    See  Italy,  286. 
Portraiture,  all,  is  Gothic,  291  ;  great  portraits  must  also  be  great 

pictures,  292 ;  modern,  desire  to  be  painted  as  proud  or  grand, 

296  ;  perfect  examples  of  (see  Florence,  Holbein),  286  ;  power  of, 

a  common  gift,  292. 
Power,  the  noblest,  man's  own  strength,  314. 
Praise.    See  Criticism,  355. 

Pre-Rapiiaelitism,  modern,  denned,  270,  271 ;  dislike  of  by  practical 
people,  282  ;  minuteness  of  work  in,  not  essential,  270 ;  personifica- 
tion and,  271  ;  the  school  of,  254 ;  truth  of,  274. 

Press,  the  public,  its  value,  304. 

Price,  everything  has  but  one  just,  320. 

Priest,  dislike  of  the  word  by  English  public,  265. 

Priesthood  of  Western  world,  its  character,  295. 

Profession,  choice  of  a,  and  means  of  livelihood,  352. 

Progress,  the  direction  more  important  than  the  distance  reached,  286. 

Protjt,  S.,  338. 

Public  opinion  and  the  press,  304. 

*  Punch,'  the  artists  of,  townsmen,  333  ;  the  laws  of  beauty,  326  ;  Be- 
dell, Sir  Pompey.  331  ;  Bull,  John,  the  farmer,  332  ;  '  defends  his 
pudding,'  334;  children  in.  328  ;  on  the  Continent,  333  ;  the  found- 
ers of,  325  ;  girls  in,  328  -329  ;  illustrations  to,  best  sketch  in,  328  ; 
'immortal  periodical, ' 327  ;  on  manufactures,  says  but  little,  332; 
politics  of,  328  (see  under  Gladstone  and  others)  ;  on  the  poor, 
does  not  give  their  beauty,  328  ;  as  expressing  public  opinion,  332  ; 
social  types  in,  328  ;  on  society  and  wealth,  329  ;  quoted,  298.  See 
Du  Maurier,  Leech,  Tenniel,  327. 

Puritan,  old,  view  of  the  Bible,  256. 

Pyrrhic  dance,  the,  295.    See  Byron. 

Railroads  and  scenery,  364  ;  as  subjects  of  landscape  art  316. 
Raphael's  children,  310. 

Realism  in  art,  318  ;  its  value  as  compelling  belief,  269 ;  as  affecting 

manner  and  minuteness  of  work,  270. 
Religion  and  repose,  353-354. 
Rembrandt's  children,  310. 

Renaissance,  luxury  of  the,  310  ;  poison  of  the,  296. 
Repose  of  mind,  353. 

Resurrection,  the,  the  mainspring  of  all  lovely  work,  261. 
Bethel,  Alfred;  his  '  Death  the  Avenger '  and  '  Barbarossa,'  307. 


382 


INDEX. 


Retsch's  'Faust,'  'Leonora.'  'Poetry,'  307. 

Reynolds,  Sir  J.,  286  ;  children  by,  310  ;  dress,  painting  of,  308  ;  faults 
of,  350  ;  formality  in,  338  ;  compared  with  Gainsborough,  350  ; 
greatness  of,  287,  350  ;  exhibition  of  his  works  at  Academy  and 
Grosvenor  Gallery  (1883),  356  ;  his  variety,  ib.  ;  pictures  by,  '  Mrs. 
Abington  '  as  '  Miss  Prue,'  356  ;  'Age  of  Innocence,'  288  ;  Cherubs' 
heads,  291  ;  'Mrs.  Nesbit '  as  'Circe,'  356  ;  '  Mrs.  Pelham/  288  ; 
4  Mrs.  Sheridan  '  as  '  St.  Cecilia/  356. 

Richmond,  George,  old  friend  of  author,  253. 

 ,  Prof.  W.,  at  Oxford,  253  ;  figure-study  classes  of,  330  ;  resigns 

the  chair,  253  ;  portraits  by.  Grosvenor  Gallery  (1883),  291. 

Righter,  Ludwig,  children  by,  310 ;  designs  of,  272  ;  outlines  of,  280 ; 
'Lord's  Prayer,'  279  ;  'Wide,  Wide  World,'  329. 

Rivalry,  evils  of,  307. 

Riviere,  B.,  his  'Sympathy,'  286. 

Robbia.    See  Luca. 

Robson,  338  ;  inventive  power  small,  339  ;  temper  of,  346  ;  ;  Outlines 

of  Scotch  Scenery,'  347  ;  picture  of,  copied,  346. 
Rolfe's  engraving  of  'Ida,'  314. 
Romagna,  the  poor  of,  266. 
Roman  Catholics  and  the  Bible,  299. 

Romance,  of  an  artist  in  his  subject,  339  ;  definition  of,  272  ;  meaning 
of  word,  254,  339. 

Rome,  the  pomp  of,  296 ;  sunset  at  (picture  Oxford  schools),  340. 

Rossetti,  D.  G.,  anatomy  of,  279  ;  and  the  Bible,  256;  his  colour,  255- 
256 ;  not  a  chiaroscurist,  281  ;  exhibition  of  his  works  (1883),  107  ; 
genius  of,  when  highest,  255  ;  a  hero  worshipper,  283  ;  Holman 
Hunt  his  disciple,  255  ;  compared  with  him,  256-257;  "material 
veracity  "  of.  256,  269  ;  Marochetti  s  view  of  his  drawings  279  ; 
painting  of,  its  faults,  257 ;  poetical  genius  of,  255 ;  and  the  ro- 
mantic school,  its  chief  force,  254 ;  temper  of,  257  ;  works  of  : 
'  Passover  '  (Oxford  schools),  269  ;  '  Virgin  in  the  house  of  St.  John,' 
256,  269. 

Rubens,  children  of,  310  ;  and  the  Renaissance,  310. 

Sacrifice,  the  doctrine  of,  259. 

St.  Augustine  in  England,  333. 

St.  Cecilia,  272.    See  Reynolds,  272. 

St.  Christopher,  300.    Sw  Alexander,  300. 

St.  Columba  in  England,  333. 

St.  Genevieve,  299. 

St.  George,  272. 

St.  George's  guild,  drawings  of,  lent  to  Oxford,  330. 
St.  Ursula,  Venice  Academy,  291. 
Satire,  power  of,  328.    See  Leech. 

Scenery,  destruction  of,  337 ;  northern  and  southern  compared,  342  ; 

and  railroads,  364;  Scott's,  Sir  W.,  love  of,  ib. 
Scepticism  and  science,  274. 
Schaffhausen.  railway  over  the  falls  of,  364. 

Science,  French  book  for  a  child  on,  350  ;  modern,  on  pain  and  pleas- 
ure, 260  ;  and  scepticism,  274  ;  suggestions  for,  308. 
Scotch  mists,  342. 

Scott,  Sir  W.,  influence  of,  on  landscape  art,  342  ;  love  of  mountains, 


INDEX. 


383 


343  ;  scenery  of,  342  ;  romance  of,  255  ;  '  Monastery.' its  faults,  306  ; 

'  White  Lady  of  Avenel,'  300. 
Severn,  Mr.  Arthur,  picture  of  Westminster  (1884),  305. 
SlIAKSPEllli,  '  Midsummer  Night's  Dream'  on  fairies,  305  ;  quoted,  305. 
Sheridan,  Mrs.    See  Reynolds,  356. 
Sybil,  a  Tuscan,  297.    See  Alexander,  297. 

Sight,  the  unaided,  and  art,  316  ;  does  not  change  in  quality,  349  ;  and 

colour,  348  ;  a  great  painter's  authoritative,  348. 
Simplon,  the,  railroad  over,  364. 
Sketch-book,  no  artist  uses  a  block-book,  361. 

Sky,  the  blue  of  the,  and  sunlight,  360  seq.  ;  cyanometer,  author's,  361  ; 

after  storm  described  by  Wordsworth,  350-351. 
Smoke  nuisance,  the  modern,  350. 
Soul,  the  best  questions  of  a  true,  259. 
South  America,  hideous  illustrations  of,  323. 
Stanpield,  as  influenced  by  Turner,  338. 
Storm  Cloud,  the,  359  et  seq. 

Strahan's  'Magazine  for  Youth,'  June,  1879,  307. 
Strength,  the  noblest,  that  of  unaided  man,  316. 
Suffering,  accepted  and  involuntary,  260. 
Sun,  the  description  of  (May  20,  1884),  360. 

Sunset,  the  'demoniac'  beauty  of  the  (Americanism),  323,  350. 

Sunshine,  the  author's  love  of,  inexpressible,  257-258-259.  See 
Claude,  Cuyp,  Hunt,  Turner,  259,  260. 

Symbolism  in  realistic  art  Pre-Raphaelitism,  270. 

Symbols  do  not  give  the  dignity  of'  the  ideas  they  represent,  273. 

Symonds,  Miss  (Oxford),  Copley  Fielding  in  possession  of,  348. 

Sympathy,  intellectual,  'no  man  can  enter  fully  into  the  mind  of  an- 
other,' 274. 

Tadema,  Alma  classic  in  what  sense,  286  ;  marble  painting  of,  294 ; 

technical  accuracy  of,  294 ;  tone  of  revolutionary  rage  in,  296 ; 

twilight  of  his  pictures,  295 ;  Grosvenor  Gallery  Collection,  295  ; 

Pyrrhic -dance,  295. 
Taine,  M.,  on  the  growth  of  art,  323. 
Taste,  the  formation  of,  268. 

Tendency,  the  direction  more  important  than  the  distance  reached,  286. 

Teniers'  'Chateau  at  Perck/  National  Gallery,  340. 

Tenniel,  his  imagination,  and  Tintoret's,  335 ;  his  power  and  tone, 
327 ;  what  he  might  have  done,  333  ;  *  Punch '  founded  by,  327  ; 
works  of :  Cartoon  No.  38,  333  ;  4  John  Bull  defends  his  Pudding,' 
334  ;  'Liberty  and  France,'  332. 

Tennyson,  his  genius  highest  in  'Maud/  'In  Memoriam,'  and  'North- 
ern Farmer,'  255  ;  romantic,  255  ;  quoted  :  '  Idylls  of  the  King,'— 
* 4 Turn,  fortune,  turn  thy  wheel,"  273;  'In  Memoriam,' li v. — 
"  The  final  goal  of  ill,"  263. 

Terror  in  art,  307. 

Thebes,  the  seven  against,  294-295. 

Theseus,  339. 

Tintoret,  masses  of,  335;  pictures  by:  the  new  edition  to  National 

Gallery,  343 ;  Doge  Mocenigo  (Oxford  Schools),  335. 
Titian,  drawing  of  trees  by,  363. 
Tobacco,  358. 


381 


INDEX. 


Topffek,  Swiss  caricaturist,  liis  life,  329  ;  his  '  Histoire  d' Albert,'  ib. 
Toys  for  children,  what  they  like,  302-303. 
Transparency,  denned,  326. 

Tree-drawing,  modern,  as  compared  with  Titian's,  362. 

Truth,  the,  in  Pre-Raphaelite  art  270-275  ;  in  Turner,  318. 

Turner,  his  character  and  genius,  337  ;  paints  clouds,  but  never  a 
flower,  357  ;  foregrounds  of,  no  flower  in  any,  337  ;  his  landscape, 
beyond  all  other,  not  representative  of  it,  337 ;  effect  of,  on  corn- 
temporary  art,  335  ;  minuteness  in  his  work,  270 ;  sadness  of,  337  ; 
sight  of,  349  ;  sunshine  of,  its  bold  conventionalism,  258  ;  truth,  his 
magic  in  his  318  ;  works  of:  k  Loire,'  318  ;  National  Gallery  draw- 
ings. 270,  336  ;  Oxford,  drawings  at,  253,  283. 

Tuscany,  the  poor  of,  266,.  299. 

Valerius,  339. 

Vanderneer,  his  1  Canal  Scene '  (National  Gallery),  339  ;  the  f  Even- 
ing Landscape  '  (National  Gallery),  ih. 

Vandyke,  children  by,  310;  Gainsborough's  last  words  on,  286  ;  and 
the  Renaissance,  337;  'Draught  of  Fishes'  by  (National  Gallery), 
270,  339. 

Vautier,  Bavarian  artist,  282. 

Venice,  Academy,  Carpaccio's  S.  Ursula,  291  ;  master  of  works  at  Ducal 

Palace  (G.  Boni),  262. 
Virtues,  the,  and  Greek  art,  267. 
Visions  of  great  men,  306. 
Vivisection,  264. 
Vulgarity  of  selfishness,  339. 

Wainscoting,  old  English,  321. 

War,  and  Greek  art,  295. 

Water,  effect  on  colour  of  a  drop  of,  322. 

 Colour,  old  English,  its  methods  and  labour,  345. 

Watts,  G.  F.,  completeness  of  his  work,  281  ;  Greek  feeling  in,  ib.  ;  hero- 

worship  of,  283  ;  Houses  of  Parliament  frescoes,  designs  for,  281. 
Wealth,  evils  of,  311. 

Weather,  good  and  bad,  343-344  ;  bad,  worse  in  lowlands  than  in 
highlands,  363  ;  modern,  its  deterioration,  and  recent  phenomena 
(May  20,  1884),  358  seq.;  the  effect  of  it  on  artists,  356,  363. 

Wilkib,"  children  by,  311. 

Wilson,  Richard,  the  first  sincere  landscape  artist,  341. 
Women  cannot  paint,  author's  saying  that,  263. 
Wood-carving,  mediaeval,  321. 

Wood-cutting  :  American,  325  ;  not  meant  to  print  blots,  324 ;  cheap, 
323  ;  ease  and  danger  of,  322  ;  flesh  tint,  rendering  of,  325  ;  mod- 
ern methods  of,  325  ;  and  sculpture  material  for,  324 ;  transpar- 
ency in,  how  given,  325  ;  readily  expresses  ugliness  or  terror,  322. 

Wordsworth,  children  of,  311  ;  love  of  mountains,  348  ;  Society,  306  ; 
quoted  :  4  Excursion,'  Book  ii  ,  348  ;  Sonnets— "  We  live  by  admi- 
ration," 272  ;  "  The  world  is  too  much  with  us,''  306. 

Work,  goodness  of,  in  proportion  to  our  joy  in  it,  348. 

Youth,  praise  of  modern  English,  335. 


the  end. 


NOTES 

ON  THE 

CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Many  persons  will  probably  find  fault  with  me  for  publishing 
opinions  which  are  not  new  ;  but  I  shall  bear  this  blame  con- 
tentedly, believing  that  opinions  on  this  subject  could  hardly 
be  just  if  they  were  not  1800  years  old.  Others  will  blame 
me  for  making  proposals  which  are  altogether  new ;  to  whom 
I  would  answer,  that  things  in  these  days  seem  not  so  far 
right  but  that  they  may  be  mended.  And  others  will  simply 
call  the  opinions  false  and  the  proposals  foolish — to  whose 
good  will,  it  they  take  it  in  hand  to  contradict  me,  I  must 
leave  what  I  have  written — having  no  purpose  of  being 
drawn,  at  present,  into  religious  controversy.  If,  however, 
any  should  admit  the  truth,  but  regret  the  tone  of  what  I 
have  said,  I  can  only  pray  them  to  consider  how  much  less 
harm  is  done  in  the  world  by  ungraceful  boldness,  than  by 
untimely  Fear. 

Denmark  Hill, 
Feb.  1851. 


NOTES  ON 

THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


The  following  remarks  were  intended  to  form  part  of  the 
appendix  to  an  essay  on  Architecture  :  But  it  seemed  to  me, 
when  I  had  put  them  into  order,  that  they  might  be  useful  to 
persons  who  would  not  care  to  possess  the  work  to  which  I 
proposed  to  attach  them  ;  I  publish  them,  therefore,  in  a 
separate  form  ;  but  I  have  not  time  to  give  them  more  con- 
sistency than  they  would  have  had  in  the  subordinate  position 
originally  intended  for  them.  I  do  not  profess  to  teach 
Divinity  ;  and  I  pray  the  reader  to  understand  this,  and  to 
pardon  the  slightness  and  insufficiency  of  notes  set  down  with 
no  more  intention  of  connected  treatment  of  their  subject 
than  might  regulate  an  accidental  conversation.  Some  of 
them  are  simply  copied  from  my  private  diary  ;  others  are 
detached  statements  of  facts,  which  seem  to  me  significative 
or  valuable,  without  comment  ;  all  are  written  in  haste,  and 
in  the  intervals  of  occupation  with  an  entirely  different  sub- 
ject. It  may  be  asked  of  me,  whether  I  hold  it  right  to  speak 
thus  hastily  and  insufficiently  respecting  the  matter  in  ques- 
tion? Yes.  I  hold  it  right  to  speak  hastily:  not  to  think 
hastily.  I  have  not  thought  hastily  of  these  things ;  and,  be- 
sides, the  haste  of  speech  is  confessed,  that  the  reader  may 
think  of  me  only  as  talking  to  him,  and  saying,  as  shortly  and 
simply  as  I  can,  things  which,  if  he  esteem  them  foolish  or 
idle,  he  is  welcome  to  cast  aside ;  but  which,  in  very  truth,  I 
cannot  help  saying  at  this  time. 


388 


NOTES  ON  THE 


The  passages  in  the  essay  which  required  notes,  described 
the  repression  of  the  political  power  of  the  Venetian  Clergy 
by  the  Venetian  Senate  ;  and  it  became  necessary  for  me — in 
supporting  an  assertion  made  in  the  course  of  the  inquiry, 
that  the  idea  of  separation  of  Church  and  State  was  both  vain 
and  impious — to  limit  the  sense  in  which  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  word  "  Church  "  should  be  understood,  and  to  note 
one  or  two  consequences  which  would  result  from  the  ac- 
ceptance of  such  limitation.  This  I  may  as  well  do  in  a  sepa- 
rate paper,  readable  by  any  person  interested  in  the  subject ; 
for  it  is  high  time  that  some  definition  of  the  word  should  be 
agreed  upon.  I  do  not  mean  a  definition  involving  the  doc- 
trine of  this  or  that  division  of  Christians,  but  limiting,  in  a 
manner  understood  by  all  of  them,  the  sense  in  which  the 
word  should  thenceforward  be  used.  There  is  grievous  in- 
convenience in  the  present  state  of  things.  For  instance,  in  a 
sermon  lately  published  at  Oxford,  by  an  anti  Tractarian 
divine,  I  find  this  sentence, — "It  is  clearly  within  the  prov- 
ince of  the  State  to  establish  a  national  church,  or  external  in- 
stitution of  certain  forms  of  worship  :  "  Now  suppose  one  were 
to  take  this  interpretation  of  the  word  "  Church"  given  by  an 
Oxford  divine,  and  substitute  it  for  the  simple  word  in  some 
Bible  Texts,  as  for  instance,  "  Unto  the  angel  of  the  external 
institution  of  certain  forms  of  worship  of  Ephesus,"  &c.  Or, 
"  Salute  the  brethren  which  are  in  Laodicea,  and  Nymphas, 
and  the  external  institution  of  certain  forms  of  worship  which 
is  in  his  house," — what  awkward  results  we  should  have,  here 
and  there  !  Now  I  do  not  say  it  is  possible  for  men  to  agree 
with  each  other  in  their  religious  opinions,  but  it  is  certainly 
possible  for  them  to  agree  with  each  other  upon  their  religious 
expressions ;  and  when  a  word  occurs  in  the  Bible  a  hundred 
and  fourteen  times,  it  is  surely  not  asking  too  much  of  con- 
tending divines  to  let  it  stand  in  the  sense  in  which  it  there 
occurs  ;  and  when  they  want  an  expression  of  something  for 
which  it  does  not  stand  in  the  Bible,  to  use  some  other  word. 
There  is  no  compromise  of  religious  opinion  in  this  :  it  is 
simply  proper  respect  for  the  Queen's  English. 

The  word  occurs  in  the  New  Testament,  as  I  said,  one  hun- 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPF0LD8. 


389 


dred  and  fourteen  times.*  In  every  one  of  those  occurrences, 
it  bears  one  and  the  same  grand  sense  :  that  of  a  congregation 
or  assembly  of  men.  But  it  bears  this  sense  under  four  dif- 
ferent modifications,  giving  four  separate  meanings  to  the 
word.    These  are — 

I.  The  entire  Multitude  of  the  Elect ;  otherwise  called  the 
Body  of  Christ ;  and  sometimes  the  Bride,  the  Lamb's  Wife  ; 
including  the  Faithful  in  all  ages  ;  Adam,  and  the  children  of 
Adam  yet  unborn. 

In  this  sense  it  is  used  in  Ephesians  v.  25,  27,  32  ;  Colos- 
sians  i.  18,  and  several  other  passages. 

II.  The  entire  multitude  of  professing  believers  in  Christ, 
existing  on  earth  at  a  given  moment ;  including  false  brethren, 
wolves  in  sheep's  clothing,  goats,  and  tares,  as  well  as  sheep> 
and  wheat,  and  other  forms  of  bad  fish  with  good  in  the  net. 

In  this  sense  ifc  is  used  in  1  Cor.  x.  32  ;  xv.  9  ;  Galatians  i. 
13,  1  Tim.  iii.  5,  &c. 

III.  The  multitude  of  professed  believers,  living  in  a  certain 
city,  place,  or  house.  This  is  the  most  frequent  sense  in 
which  the  word  occurs,  as  in  Acts  vii.  38  ;  xiii.  1  ;  1  Cor.  i.  2  ; 
xvi.  19,  &c. 

IV.  Any  assembly  of  men  :  as  in  Acts  xix.  32,  41. 

That  in  a  hundred  and  twelve  out  of  the  hundred  and  fourteen 
texts,  the  word  bears  some  one  of  these  four  meanings,  is  in- 
disputable, f  But  there  are  two  texts  in  which,  if  the  word 
had  alone  occurred,  its  meaning  might  have  been  doubtful. 
These  are  Matt.  xvi.  18,  and  xviii.  17. 

The  absurdity  of  founding  any  doctrine  upon  the  inexpres- 
sibly minute  possibility  that  in  these  two  texts,  the  word 
might  have  been  used  with  a  different  meaning  from  that  which 
it  bore  in  all  the  others,  coupled  with  the  assumption  that  the 

*  I  may,  perhaps,  have  missed  count  of  one  or  two  occurrences  of  the 
word  ;  but  not,  I  think,  in  any  important  passages. 

f  The  expression  u  House  of  God,"  in  Tim.  iii.  15,  is  shown  to  be  used 
of  the  congregation  by  1  Cor.  iii.  16,  17. 

I  have  not  noticed  the  word  Kvpian^j  (oIk/o),  from  which  the  German 
"  Kirche,"  the  English  "  Church,"  and  the  Scotch  "  Kirk,"  are  derived, 
as  it  is  not  used  with  that  signification  in  the  New  Testament. 


390 


NOTES  ON  THE 


meaning  was  this  or  that,  is  self-evident :  it  is  not  so  niucli  a 
religious  error  as  a  philological  solecism  ;  unparalleled,  so  far 
as  I  know,  in  any  other  science  but  that  of  divinity. 

Nor  is  it  ever,  I  think,  committed  with  open  front  by  Prot- 
estants. No  English  divine,  asked  in  a  straightforward  man- 
ner for  a  Scriptural  definition  of  "the  Church,"  would,  I  sup- 
pose, be  bold  enough  to  answer  "  the  Clergy."  Nor  is  there 
any  harm  in  the  common  use  of  the  word,  so  only  that  it  be 
distinctly  understood  to  be  not  the  Scriptural  one  ;  and  there- 
fore to  be  unfit  for  substitution  in  a  Scriptural  text.  There 
is  no  harm  in  a  man's  talking  of  his  son's  "  going  into  the 
Church  :  "  meaning  that  he  is  going  to  take  orders  ;  but  there 
is  much  harm  in  his  supposing  this  a  Scriptural  use  of  the 
word,  and  therefore,  that  when  Christ  said,  "Tell  it  to  the 
Church,"  He  might  possibly  have  meant,  "  Tell  it  to  the  Clergy." 

It  is  time  to  put  an  end  to  the  chance  of  such  misunder- 
standing. Let  it  but  be  declared  plainly  by  all  men,  when 
they  begin  to  state  their  opinions  on  matters  ecclesiastical, 
that  they  will  use  the  word  "Church  "in  one  sense  or  the 
other ; — That  they  will  accept  the  sense  in  which  it  is  used  by 
the  Apostles,  or  that  they  deny  this  sense,  and  propose  a  new 
definition  of  their  own.  We  shall  then  know  what  we  are 
about  with  them — wre  may  perhaps  grant  them  their  new 
use  of  the  term,  and  argue  with  them  on  that  understanding ; 
so  only  that  they  will  not  pretend  to  make  use  of  Scriptural 
authority,  while  they  refuse  to  employ  Scriptural  language. 
This,  however,  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  do  at  present.  I  desire 
only  to  address  those  who  are  willing  to  accept  the  Apostolic 
sense  of  the  word  Church,  and  with  them,  I  would  endeavor 
shortly  to  ascertain  what  consequences  must  follow  from  an 
acceptance  of  that  Apostolic  sense,  and  wThat  must  be  our  first 
and  most  necessary  conclusions  from  the  common  language 
of  Scripture*  respecting  these  following  points  : — 

*  Any  reference,  except  to  Scripture,  in  notes  of  this  kind  would  of 
course  be  useless :  the  argument  from,  or  with  the  Fathers,  is  not  to  be 
compressed  into  fifty  pages.  I  have  something  to  say  about  Hooker  ; 
but  I  reserve  that  for  another  time,  not  wishing  to  say  it  hastily,  or  to 
leave  it  without  support. 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SJ1EEPF0LDS. 


891 


1.  The  distinctive  characters  of  the  Church. 

2.  The  Authority  of  the  Church. 

3.  The  Authority  of  the  Clergy  over  the  Church. 

4.  The  connection  of  the  Church  with  the  State. 

These  are  four  separate  subjects  of  question  ;  but  we  shall 
not  have  to  put  these  questions  in  succession  with  each  of  the 
four  Scriptural  meanings  of  the  word  Church,  for  evidently  its 
second  and  third  meaning  may  be  considered  together,  as 
merely  expressing  the  general  or  particular  conditions  of  the 
Visible  Church,  and  the  fourth  signification  is  entirely  inde- 
pendent of  all  questions  of  a  religious  kind.  So  that  we  shall 
only  put  the  above  inquiries  successively  respecting  the  Invis- 
ible and  Visible  Church  ;  and  as  the  two  last, — of  authority 
of  Clergy,  and  connection  with  State — can  evidently  only  have 
reference  to  the  Visible  Church,  we  shall  have,  in  all,  these 
six  questions  to  consider. 

1.  The  distinctive  characters  of  the  Invisible  Church. 

2.  The  distinctive  characters  of  the  Visible  Church. 

3.  The  Authority  of  the  Invisible  Church. 

4.  The  Authority  of  the  Visible  Church. 

5.  The  Authorit}^  of  Clergy  over  the  Visible  Church. 

6.  The  Connection  of  the  Visible  Church  with  the  State. 

1.  What  are  the  distinctive  characters  of  the  Invisible 
Church  ;  that  is  to  say,  What  is  it  which  makes  a  person  a 
member  of  this  Church,  and  how  is  he  to  be  known  for  such  ? 

Wide  question — if  we  had  to  take  cognizance  of  all  that  has 
been  written  respecting  it,  remarkable  as  it  has  been  always 
for  quantity  rather  than  carefulness,  and  full  of  confusion  be- 
tween Visible  and  Invisible  :  even  the  article  of  the  Church  of 
England  being  ambiguous  in  its  first  clause  :  "  The  Visible 
Church  is  a  congregation  of  Faithful  men."  As  if  ever  it  had 
been  possible,  except  for  God,  to  see  Faith !  or  to  know  a 
Faithful  man  by  sight.  And  there  is  little  else  written  on 
this  question,  without  some  such  quick  confusion  of  the 
Visible  and  Invisible  Church  ; — needless  and  unaccountable 


392 


NOTES  ON  THE 


confusion.  For  evidently,  the  Church  which  is  composed  of 
Faithful  men,  is  the  one  true,  indivisible,  and  indiscernible 
Church,  built  on  the  foundation  of  Apostles  and  Prophets, 
Jesus  Christ  himself  being  the  chief  corner-stone.  It  includes 
all  who  have  ever  fallen  asleep  in  Christ,  and  all  yet  unborn, 
who  are  to  be  saved  in  Him  ;  its  Body  is  as  yet  imperfect ;  it 
will  not  be  perfected  till  the  last  saved  human  spirit  is  gath- 
ered to  its  God. 

A  man  becomes  a  member  of  this  Church  only  by  believing 
in  Christ  with  all  his  heart ;  nor  is  he  positively  recognizable 
for  a  member  of  it,  when  he  has  become  so,  by  any  one  but 
God,  not  even  by  himself.  Nevertheless,  there  are  certain 
signs  by  which  Christ's  sheep  may  be  guessed  at.  Not  by 
their  being  in  any  definite  Fold — for  many  are  lost  sheep  at 
times :  but  by  their  sheep-like  behavior ;  and  a  great  many 
are  indeed  sheep  w7hich,  on  the  far  mountain  side,  in  their 
peacefulness,  we  take  for  stones.  To  themselves,  the  best 
proof  of  their  being  Christ's  sheep  is  to  find  themselves  on 
Christ's  shoulders  ;  and,  between  them,  there  are  certain  sym- 
pathies (expressed  in  the  Apostles'  Creed  by  the  term  "  com- 
munion of  Saints "),  by  which  they  may  in  a  sort  recognise 
each  other,  and  so  become  verily  visible  to  each  other  for 
mutual  comfort. 

2.  The  Limits  of  the  Visible  Church,  or  of  the  Church  in 
the  Second  Scriptural  Sense,  are  not  so  easy  to  define  ;  they 
are  awkward  questions,  these,  of  stake-nets.  It  has  been  in- 
geniously and  plausibly  endeavored  to  make  Baptism  a  sign 
of  admission  into  the  Visible  Church,  but  absurdly  enough ; 
for  we  know  that  half  the  baptized  people  in  the  world  are 
very  visible  rogues,  believing  neither  in  God  nor  devil ;  and 
it  is  flat  blasphemy  to  call  these  Visible  Christians  ;  we  also 
know  that  the  Holy  Ghost  was  sometimes  given  before  Bap- 
tism,* and  it  would  be  absurdity  to  call  a  man  on  whom  the 
Holy  Ghost  had  fallen,  an  Invisible  Christian.  The  only 
rational  distinction  is  that  which  practically,  though  not  pro- 
fessedly, we  always  assume.  If  we  hear  a  man  profess  him- 
self a  believer  in  God  and  in  Christ,  and  detect  him  in  no 

*  Acts  x.  44. 


CONSTRUCTION  OB1  SHEEPF0LD8. 


393 


glaring  and  wilful  violation  of  God's  law,  we  speak  of  him. 
as  a  Christian  ;  and  on  the  other  hand,  if  we  hear  him  or  see 
him  denying  Christ,  either  in  his  words  or  conduct,  we  tacitly 
assume  him  not  to  be  a  Christian.  A  mawkish  charity  pre- 
vents us  from  outspeaking  in  this  matter,  and  from  earnestly 
endeavoring  to  discern  who  are  Christians  and  who  are  not ; 
and  this  I  hold  *  to  be  one  of  the  chief  sins  of  the  Church  in 
the  present  day  ;  for  thus  wicked  men  are  put  to  no  shame  ; 
and  better  men  are  encouraged  in  their  failings,  or  caused  to 
hesitate  in  their  virtues,  by  the  example  of  those  whom,  in 
false  charity,  they  choose  to  call  Christians.  Now,  it  being 
granted  that  it  is  impossible  to  know,  determinedly,  who  are 
Christians  indeed,  that  is  no  reason  for  utter  negligence  in 
separating  the  nominal,  apparent,  or  possible  Christian  from 
the  professed  Pagan  or  enemy  of  God.  "We  spend  much 
time  in  arguing  about  efficacy  of  sacraments  and  such  other 
mysteries  ;  but  we  do  not  act  upon  the  very  certain  tests 
which  are  clear  and  visible.  We  know  that  Christ's  people 
are  not  thieves — not  liars — not  busybodies — not  dishonest — 
not  avaricious — not  wasteful — not  cruel.  Let  us  then  get 
ourselves  well  clear  of  thieves — liars — wasteful  people — avari- 

*  Let  not  the  reader  be  displeased  with  me  for  these  short  and  appar- 
ently insolent  statements  of  opinion.  I  am  not  writing  insolently,  but 
as  shortly  and  clearly  as  I  can  ;  and  when  I  seriously  believe  a  thing,  I 
say  so  in  a  few  words,  leaving  the  reader  to  determine  what  my  belief 
is  worth.  But  I  do  not  choose  to  temper  down  every  expression  of  per- 
sonal opinion  into  courteous  generalities,  and  so  lose  space,  and  time, 
and  intelligibility  at  once.  We  are  utterly  oppressed  in  these  daj^s  by 
our  courtesies,  and  considerations,  and  compliances,  and  proprieties. 
Forgive  me  them,  this  once,  or  rather  let  us  all  forgive  them  to  each, 
other,  and  learn  to  speak  plainly  first,  and,  if  it  may  be,  gracefully  after- 
wards ;  and  not  only  to  speak,  but  to  stand  by  what  we  have  spoken. 
One  of  my  Oxford  friends  heard,  the  other  day,  that  I  was  employed  on 
these  notes,  and  forthwith  wrote  to  me,  in  a  panic,  not  to  put  my  name 
to  them,  for  fear  I  should  "  compromise  myself."  I  think  we  are  most 
of  us  compromised  to  some  extent  already,  when  England  has  sent  a 
Roman  Catholic  minister  to  the  second  city  in  Italy,  and  remains  herself 
for  a  week  without  any  government,  because  her  chief  men  cannot  agree 
upon  the  position  which  a  Popish  cardinal  is  to  have  leave  to  occupy  in 
London. 


394 


NOTES  ON  THE 


cious  people — cheating  people — people  who  do  not  pay  theii 
debts.  Let  us  assure  them  that  they,  at  least,  do  not  belong 
to  the  Visible  Church  ;  and  having  thus  got  that  Church  into 
decent  shape  and  cohesion,  it  will  be  time  to  think  of  drawing 
the  stake-nets  closer. 

I  hold  it  for  a  law,  palpable  to  common  sense,  and  which 
nothing  but  the  cowardice  and  faithlessness  of  the  Church 
prevents  it  from  putting  in  practice,  that  the  conviction  of 
any  dishonorable  conduct  or  wilful  crime,  of  any  fraud,  false- 
hood, cruelty,  or  violence,  should  be  ground  for  the  excom- 
munication of  any  man  : — for  his  publicly  declared  separation 
from  the  acknowledged  body  of  the  Visible  Church :  and 
that  he  should  not  be  received  again  therein  without  public 
confession  of  his  crime  and  declaration  of  his  repentance.  If 
this  were  vigorously  enforced,  we  should  soon  have  greater 
purity  of  life  in  the  world,  and  fewer  discussions  about  high 
and  low  churches.  But  before  we  can  obtain  any  idea  of  the 
manner  in  which  such  law  could  be  enforced,  we  have  to  con- 
sider the  second  question,  respecting  the  Authority  of  the 
Church.  Now  Authority  is  twofold  :  to  declare  doctrine 
and  to  enforce  discipline  ;  and  we  have  to  inquire,  thereforer 
in  each  kind, — 

3.  What  is  the  authority  of  the  Invisible  Church  ?  evidently, 
in  matters  of  doctrine,  all  members  of  the  Invisible  Church 
must  have  been,  and  must  ever  be,  at  the  time  of  their  deaths, 
right  in  the  points  essential  to  Salvation.  But,  (A.)  we  cannot  tell 
who  are  members  of  the  Invisible  Church. 

(B.)  We  cannot  collect  evidence  from  deathbeds  in  a  clearly 
stated  form. 

(C.)  We  can  collect  evidence,  in  any  form,  only  from  some 
one  or  two  out  of  every  sealed  thousand  of  the  Invisible 
Church.  Elijah  thought  he  was  alone  in  Israel ;  and  yet  there 
were  seven  thousand  invisible  ones  around  him.  Grant  that 
we  had  Elijah's  intelligence  ;  and  we  could  only  calculate  on 
collecting  the  -^Vo-th  part  of  the  evidence  or  opinions  of  the 
part  of  the  Invisible  Church  living  on  earth  at  a  given  mo- 
ment ;  that  is  to  say,  the  seven-millionth  or  trillionth  of  its 
collective  evidence.  It  is  very  clear,  therefore,  we  cannot  hope 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SIIEEPFOLDS. 


305 


to  get  rid  of  the  contradictory  opinions,  and  keep  the  consist- 
ent ones,  by  a  general  equation.  But,  it  has  been  said  there 
are  no  contradictory  opinions  ;  the  Church  is  infallible.  There 
was  some  talk  about  the  infallibility  of  the  Church,  if  I  recol- 
lect right,  in  that  letter  of  Mr.  Bennett's  to  the  Bishop  of  Lon- 
don. If  any  Church  be  infallible,  it  is  assuredly  the  Invisible 
Church,  or  body  of  Christ ;  and  infallible  in  the  main  sense  it 
must  of  course  be  by  its  definition.  An  Elect  person  must  be 
saved  and  therefore  cannot  eventually  be  deceived  on  essen- 
tial points  ;  so  that  Christ  sa}^s  of  the  deception  of  such,  "  If  it 
were  possible"  implying  it  to  be  impossible.  Therefore,  as  we 
said,  if  one  could  get  rid  of  the  variable  opinions  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Invisible  Church,  the  constant  opinions  would 
assuredly  be  authoritative  :  but  for  the  three  reasons  above 
stated,  we  cannot  get  at  their  constant  opinions  :  and  as  for 
the  feelings  and  thoughts  which  they  daily  experience  or  ex- 
press, the  question  of  Infallibility  — which  is  practical  only  in 
this  bearing — is  soon  settled.  Observe  St.  Paul,  and  the  rest 
of  the  Apostles,  write  nearly  all  their  epistles  to  the  Invisible 
Church  : — Those  epistles  are  headed, — Romans,  "To  the  be- 
loved of  God,  called  to  be  saints  ;"  1  Corinthians,  "To  them 
that  are  sanctified  in  Christ  Jesus  ;"  2  Corinthians,  "To  the 
saints  in  all  Achaia  ;"  Ephesians,  "To  the  saints  which  are  at 
Ephesus,  and  to  the  faithful  in  Christ  Jesus  ; "  Philippians,  "To 
all  the  saints  which  are  at  Philippi ; "  Colossians,  "  To  the  saints 
and  faithful  brethren  which  are  at  Colosse  ; "  1  and  2  Thessa- 
lonians,  "To  the  Church  of  the  Thessalonians,  which  is  in  God 
the  Father,  and  the  Lord  Jesus;"  1  and  2  Timothy,  "To  his 
own  son  in  the  faith  ; "  Titus,  to  the  same  ;  1  Peter,  "  To  the 
Strangers,  Elect  according  to  the  foreknowledge  of  God  ; " 
2  Peter,  "To  them  that  have  obtained  like  precious  faith 
with  us ; "  2  John,  "  To  the  Elect  lady  ;  1  Jude,  "  To  them 
that  are  sanctified  by  God  the  Father,  and  preserved  in  Jesus 
Christ  and  called." 

There  are  thus  fifteen  epistles,  expressly  directed  to  the 
members  of  the  Invisible  Church.  Philemon  and  Hebrews, 
and  1  and  3  John,  are  evidently  also  so  written,  though  not 
so  expressly  inscribed.    That  of  James,  and  that  to  the  Gala- 


396 


NOTES  ON  THE 


tians,  are  as  evidently  to  the  Visible  Church :  the  one  being 
general,  and  the  other  to  persons  "removed  from  Him  that 
called  them."  Missing  out,  therefore,  these  two  epistles,  but 
including  Christ's  words  to  His  disciples,  we  find  in  the  Script- 
ural addresses  to  members  of  the  Invisible  Church,  fourteen, 
if  not  more,  direct  injunctions  "  not  to  be  deceived."*  So 
much  for  the  "  Infallibility  of  the  Church." 

Now,  one  could  put  up  with  Puseyism  more  patiently,  if  its 
fallacies  arose  merely  from  peculiar  temperaments  yielding  to 
peculiar  temptations.  But  its  bold  refusals  to  read  plain 
English  ;  its  elaborate  adjustments  of  tight  bandages  over  its 
own  eyes,  as  wholesome  preparation  for  a  walk  among  traps 
and  pitfalls  ;  its  daring  trustfulness  in  its  own  clairvoyance  all 
the  time,  and  declarations  that  every  pit  it  falls  into  is  a  sev- 
enth heaven ;  and  that  it  is  pleasant  and  profitable  to  break 
its  legs  ; — with  all  this  it  is  difficult  to  have  patience.  One 
thinks  of  the  highwayman  with  his  eyes  shut,  in  the  Arabian 
Nights  ;  and  wonders  whether  any  kind  of  scourging  would 
prevail  upon  the  Anglican  highwayman  to  open  "first  one  and 
then  the  other." 

4.  So  much,  then,  I  repeat  for  the  infallibility  of  the  Invis- 
ible Church,  and  for  its  consequent  authority.  Now,  if  we 
want  to  ascertain  what  infallibility  and  authority  there  is  in 
the  Visible  Church,  we  have  to  alloy  the  small  wisdom  and 
the  light  weight  of  Invisible  Christians,  with  large  per-centage 
of  the  false  wisdom  and  contrary  weight  of  Undetected  Anti- 
Christians.  Which  alloy  makes  up  the  current  coin  of  opin- 
ions in  the  Visible  Church,  having  such  value  as  we  may 
choose — its  nature  being  properly  assayed — to  attach  to  it. 

There  is,  therefore,  in  matters  of  doctrine,  no  such  thing  as 
the  Authority  of  the  Church.  We  might  as  well  talk  of  the 
authority  of  the  morning  cloud.  There  may  be  light  in  it, 
but  the  light  is  not  of  it ;  and  it  diminishes  the  light  that  it 
gets  ;  and  lets  less  of  it  through  than  it  receives,  Christ  being- 
its  sun.    Or,  we  might  as  well  talk  of  the  authority  of  a  flock 

*  Matt.  xxiv.  4;  Mark  xiii.  5;  Luke  xxi.  8;  1  Cor.  iii.  18,  vi.  9,  xv. 
33  ;  Eph.  iv.  14,  v.  6* ;  Col.  ii.  8 ;  2  Thess.  ii.  3 ;  Heb.  iii.  13  ;  1  John  i 
8,  iii.  7 ;  2  John  7,  8. 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


397 


of  sheep— for  the  Church  is  a  body  to  be  taught  and  fed,  not 
to  teach  and  feed :  and  of  all  sheep  that  are  fed  on  the  earth, 
Christ's  Sheep  are  the  most  simple  (the  children  of  this  gen- 
eration are  wiser) :  always  losing  themselves  ;  doing  little  else 
in  this  world  but  lose  themselves  ; — never  finding  themselves  ; 
always  found  by  Some  One  else  ;  getting  perpetually  into 
sloughs,  and  snows,  and  bramble  thickets,  like  to  die  there, 
but  for  their  Shepherd,  who  is  for  ever  finding  them  and  bear- 
ing them  back,  with  torn  fleeces  and  eyes  full  of  fear. 

This,  then,  being  the  No-Authority  of  the  Church  in  mat- 
ter of  Doctrine,  what  Authority  has  it  in  matters  of  Disci- 
pline ? 

Much,  every  way.  The  sheep  have  natural  and  wholesome 
power  (however  far  scattered  they  may  be  from  their  proper 
fold)  of  getting  together  in  orderly  knots  ;  following  each 
other  on  trodden  sheepwalks,  and  holding  their  heads  all  one 
way  when  they  see  strange  dogs  coming  ;  as  well  as  of  casting 
out  of  their  company  any  whom  they  see  reason  to  suspect  of 
not  being  right  sheep,  and  being  among  them  for  no  good. 
All  which  things  must  be  done  as  the  time  and  place  require, 
and  by  common  consent.  A  path  may  be  good  at  one  time  of 
day  which  is  bad  at  another,  or  after  a  change  of  wind  ;  and  a 
position  may  be  very  good  for  sudden  defence,  which  would 
be  very  stiff  and  awkward  for  feeding  in.  And  common  con- 
Bent  must  often  be  of  such  and  such  a  company  on  this  or  that 
hillside,  in  this  or  that  particular  danger,  — not  of  all  the  sheep 
in  the  world  :  and  the  consent  may  either  be  literally  com- 
mon, and  expressed  in  assembly,  or  it  may  be  to  appoint  offi- 
cers over  the  rest,  with  such  and  such  trusts  of  the  common 
authority,  to  be  used  for  the  common  advantage.  Conviction 
of  crimes,  and  excommunication,  for  instance,  could  neither  be 
effected  except  before,  or  by  means  of,  officers  of  some  ap- 
pointed authority. 

5.  This,  then,  brings  us  to  our  fifth  question.  What  is  the 
Authority  of  the  Clergy  over  the  Church  ? 

The  first  clause  of  the  question  must  evidently  be, — Who 
are  the  Clergy?  and  it  is  not  easy  to  answer  this  without 
begging  the  rest  of  the  question. 


398 


NOTES  ON  THE 


For  instance,  I  think  I  can  hear  certain  people  answering, 
That  the  Clergy  are  folk  of  three  kinds, — Bishops,  who  over- 
look the  Church  ;  Priests,  who  sacrifice  for  the  Church  ; 
Deacons,  who  minister  to  the  Church  :  thus  assuming  in  their 
answer,  that  the  Church  is  to  be  sacrificed  for,  and  that  people 
cannot  overlook  and  minister  to  her  at  the  same  time  ;  which 
is  going  much  too  fast.  I  think,  however,  if  we  define  the 
Clergy  to  be  the  "  Spiritual  Officers  of  the  Church," — meaning, 
by  Officers,  merely  People  in  office, — we  shall  have  a  title  safe 
enough  and  general  enough  to  begin  with,  and  corresponding 
too,  pretty  well,  with  St.  Paul's  general  expression  7rpoiora/x€Vot, 
in  Eom.  xii.  8,  and  1  Thess.  v.  13. 

Now,  respecting  these  Spiritual  Officers,  or  office-bearers,  we 
have  to  inquire,  first,  "What  their  Office  or  Authority  is,  or 
should  be ;  secondly,  Who  gave,  or  should  give,  them  that 
Authority  ?  That  is  to  say,  first,  What  is,  or  should  be  the 
nature  of  their  office  ;  and  secondly,  What  the  extent  or  force 
of  their  authority  in  it  ?  for  this  last  depends  mainly  on  its 
derivation. 

First,  then,  What  should  be  the  offices,  and  of  what  kind 
should  be  the  authority  of  the  Clergy  ? 

I  have  hitherto  referred  to  the  Bible  for  an  answer  to  every 
question.  I  do  so  again  ;  and  behold,  the  Bible  gives  me  no 
answer.  I  defy  you  to  answer  me  from  the  Bible.  You  can 
only  guess,  and  dimly  conjecture,  what  the  offices  of  the 
Clergy  were  in  the  first  century.  You  cannot  show  me  a  sin- 
gle command  as  to  what  they  shall  be.  Strange,  this  :  the 
Bible  give  no  answer  to  so  apparently  important  a  question  ! 
God  surely  w^ould  not  have  left  His  word  without  an  answer 
to  anything  His  children  ought  to  ask.  Surely  it  must  be  a 
ridiculous  question — a  question  we  ought  never  to  have  put, 
or  thought  of  putting.  Let  us  think  of  it  again  a  little.  To 
be  sure, — it  is  a  ridiculous  question,  and  we  should  be  ashamed 
of  ourselves  for  having  put  it : — What  should  be  the  offices 
of  the  Clergy  ?  That  is  to  say,  What  are  the  possible  spiritual 
necessities  which  at  any  time  may  arise  in  the  Church,  and  by 
what  means  and  men  are  they  to  be  supplied  ; — evidently  an 
infinite  question.    Different  kinds  of  necessities  must  be  met 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  S1IEEPF0LDS. 


399 


by  different  authorities,  constituted  as  the  necessities  arise. 
Bobinson  Crusoe,  in  his  island,  wants  no  Bishop,  and  makes  a 
thunderstorm  do  for  an  Evangelist.  The  University  of  Oxford 
would  be  ill  off  without  its  Bishop  ;  but  wants  an  Evangelist 
besides  ;  and  that  forthwith.  The  authority  which  the  Vau- 
dois  shepherds  need,  is  of  Barnabas,  the  son  of  Consolation  ; 
the  authority  which  the  City  of  London  needs,  is  of  James, 
the  son  of  Thunder.  Let  us  then  alter  the  form  of  our  ques- 
tion, and  put  it  to  the  Bible  thus  ;  "What  are  the  necessities 
most  likely  to  arise  in  the  Church  ;  and  may  they  be  best  met 
by  different  men,  or  in  great  part  by  the  same  men  acting  in 
different  capacities  ?  and  are  the  names  attached  to  their  offices 
of  any  consequence  ?  Ah,  the  Bible  answers  now,  and  that 
loudly.  The  Church  is  built  on  the  Foundation  of  the  Apostles 
and  Prophets,  Jesus  Christ  himself  being  the  corner-stone. 
Well ;  We  cannot  have  two  foundations,  so  we  can  have  no 
more  Apostles  or  Prophets  : — then,  as  for  the  other  needs  of 
the  Church  in  its  edifying  upon  this  foundation,  there  are  all 
manner  of  things  to  be  done  daily  ; — rebukes  to  be  given  ; 
comfort  to  be  brought ;  Scripture  to  be  explained  ;  warning  to 
be  enforced  ;  threatenings  to  be  executed  ;  charities  to  be  ad- 
ministered ;  and  the  men  who  do  these  things  are  called,  and 
call  themselves,  with  absolute  indifference,  Deacons,  Bishops, 
Elders,  Evangelists,  according  to  what  they  are  doing  at  the 
time  of  speaking.  St.  Paul  almost  always  calls  himself  a  dea- 
con, St.  Peter  calls  himself  an  elder,  1  Pet.  v.  1,  and  Timothy, 
generally  understood  to  be  addressed  as  a  bishop,  is  called  a 
deacon  in  1  Tim.  iv.  6 — forbidden  to  rebuke  an  elder,  in  v.  1, 
and  exhorted  to  do  the  work  of  an  evangelist,  in  2  Tim.  iv.  5. 
Bat  there  is  one  thing  which,  as  officers,  or  as  separate  from 
the  rest  of  the  flock,  they  never  call  themselves, — which  it 
would  have  been  impossible,  as  so  separate,  they  ever  should 
have  called  themselves  ;  that  is — Priests, 

It  would  have  been  just  as  possible  for  the  Clergy  of  the 
early  Church  to  call  themselves  Levites,  as  to  call  themselves 
(ex  officio)  Priests.  The  whole  function  of  Priesthood  was, 
on  Christmas  morning,  at  once  and  forever  gathered  into  His 
Person  who  was  born  at  Bethlehem ;  and  thenceforward,  all 


400 


NOTES  ON  THE 


who  are  united  with  Him,  and  who  with  Him  make  sacrifice 
of  themselves  ;  that  is  to  say,  all  members  of  the  Invisible 
Church,  become  at  the  instant  of  their  conversion,  Priests ; 
and  are  so  called  in  1  Pet.  ii.  5,  and  Bev.  i.  6,  and  xx.  6,  where, 
observe,  there  is  no  possibility  of  limiting  the  expression  to 
the  Clergy  ;  the  conditions  of  Priesthood  being  simply  having 
been  loved  by  Christ,  and  washed  in  His  blood.  The  blasphe- 
mous claim  on  the  part  of  the  Clergy  of  being  more  Priests 
than  the  godly  laity — that  is  to  say,  of  having  a  higher  Holi- 
ness than  the  Holiness  of  being  one  with  Christ, — is  alto 
gether  a  Romanist  heresy,  dragging  after  it,  or  having  its  or- 
igin in,  the  other  heresies  respecting  the  sacrificial  power  of 
the  Church  officer,  and  his  repeating  the  oblation  of  Christ, 
and  so  having  power  to  absolve  from  sin : — writh  all  the  other 
endless  and  miserable  falsehoods  of  the  Papal  hierarchy ;  false- 
hoods for  which,  that  there  might  be  no  shadow  of  excuse,  it 
has  been  ordained  by  the  Holy  Spirit  that  no  Christian  minis- 
ter shall  once  call  himself  a  Priest  from  one  end  of  the  New 
Testament  to  the  other,  except  together  with  his  flock  ;  and 
so  far  from  the  idea  of  any  peculiar  sanctification,  belonging 
to  the  Clergy,  never  entering  the  apostles'  minds,  we  actually 
find  St.  Paul  defending  himself  against  the  possible  imputation 
of  inferiority  :  "If  any  man  trust  to  himself  that  he  is  Christ's, 
let  him  of  himself  think  this  again,  that,  as  he  is  Christ's,  even 
so  are  we  Christ's  "  (2  Cor.  x.  7).  As  for  the  unhappy  reten- 
tion of  the  term  Priest  in  our  English  Prayer-book,  so  long 
as  it  was  understood  to  mean  nothing  but  an  upper  order  of 
Church  officer,  licensed  to  tell  the  congregation  from  the  read- 
ing-desk, what  (for  the  rest)  they  might,  one  would  think, 
have  known  without  being  told, — that  "God  pardoneth  all 
them  that  truly  repent," — there  was  little  harm  in  it ;  but, 
now  that  this  order  of  Clergy  begins  to  presume  upon  a  title 
which,  if  it  mean  anything  at  all,  is  simply  short  for  Presbyter, 
and  has  no  more  to  do  with  the  word  Hiereus  than  with  the 
word  Levite,  it  is  time  that  some  order  should  be  taken  both 
with  the  book  and  the  Clergy.  For  instance,  in  that  danger- 
ous compound  of  halting  poetry  with  hollow  Divinity,  called 
the  Lyra  Apostolica,  we  find  much  versification  on  the  sin  of 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


401 


Korali  and  his  company  :  with  suggested  parallel  between  the 
Christian  and  Levitical  Churches,  and  threatening  that  there 
are  ' '  Judgment  Fires,  for  high-voiced  Korahs  in  their  da}^." 
There  are  indeed  such  fires.  But  when  Moses  said,  "  a  Proph- 
et shall  the  Lord  raise  up  unto  you,  like  unto  me,"  did  he 
mean  the  writer  who  signs  y  in  the  Lyra  Apostolica  ?  The 
office  of  the  Lawgiver  and  Priest  is  now  for  ever  gathered  in- 
to One  Mediator  between  God  and  man  ;  and  they  are  guilty 
of  the  sin  of  Korah  who  blasphemously  would  associate  them- 
selves in  his  Mediatorship. 

As  for  the  passages  in  the  "  Ordering  of  Priests"  and  "  Visi- 
tation of  the  Sick  "  respecting  Absolution,  they  are  evidently 
pure  Komanism,  and  might  as  well  not  be  there,  for  any  prac- 
tical effect  which  they  have  on  the  consciences  of  the  Laity ; 
and  had  much  better  not  be  there,  as  regards  their  effect 
on  the  minds  of  the  Clergy.  It  is  indeed  true  that  Christ 
promised  absolving  power  to  His  Apostles  :  He  also  promised 
to  those  who  believed,  that  they  should  take  up  serpents,  and 
if  they  drank  any  deadly  thing,  it  should  not  hurt  them.  His 
words  were  fulfilled  literally  ;  but  those  who  would  extend 
their  force  to  beyond  the  Apostolic  times,  most  extend  both 
promises,  or  neither. 

Although,  however,  the  Protestant  laity  do  not  often  admit 
the  absolving  power  of  their  clergy,  they  are  but  too  apt  to 
yield,  in  some  sort,  to  the  impression  of  their  greater  sancti- 
fication  ;  and  from  this  instantly  results  the  unhappy  conse- 
quence that  the  sacred  character  of  the  Layman  himself  is 
forgotten,  and  his  own  Ministerial  duty  is  neglected.  Men 
not  in  office  in  the  Church  suppose  themselves,  on  that 
ground,  in  a  sort  unholy ;  and  that,  therefore,  they  may  sin 
with  more  excuse,  and  be  idle  or  impious  with  less  danger, 
than  the  Clergy :  especially  they  consider  themselves  relieved 
from  all  ministerial  function,  and  as  permitted  to  devote  their 
whole  time  and  energy  to  the  business  of  this  world.  No 
mistake  can  possibly  be  greater.  Every  member  of  the 
Church  is  equally  bound  to  the  service  of  the  Head  of  the 
Church ;  and  that  service  is  pre-eminently  the  saving  of  souls. 
There  is  not  a  moment  of  a  man's  active  life  in  which  he  may 


402 


NOTES  ON  THE 


not  be  indirectly  preaching  •  and  throughout  a  great  part  of 
his  life  he  ought  to  be  directly  preaching,  and  teaching  both 
strangers  and  friends  ;  his  children,  his  servants,  and  all  who 
in  any  way  are  put  under  him,  being  given  to  him  as  especial 
objects  of  his  ministration.  So  that  the  only  difference  be- 
tween  a  Church  officer  and  a  lay  member,  is  either  a  wider 
degree  of  authority  given  to  the  former,  as  apparently  a  wriser 
and  better  man,  or  a  special  appointment  to  some  office  more 
easily  discharged  by  one  person  than  by  many  :  as,  for  in- 
stance, the  serving  of  tables  by  the  deacons  ;  the  authority  or 
appointment  being,  in  either  case,  commonly  signified  by  a 
marked  separation  from  the  rest  of  the  Church,  and  the  privi- 
lege or  power  *  of  being  maintained  by  the  rest  of  the  Church, 
without  being  forced  to  labor  with  his  hands  or  encumber 
himself  with  any  temporal  concerns. 

Now,  putting  out  of  question  the  serving  of  tables,  and 
other  such  duties,  respecting  which  there  is  no  debate,  we 
shall  find  the  offices  of  the  Clergy,  whatever  names  we  may 
choose  to  give  to  those  wrho  discharge  them,  falling  mainly 
into  two  great  heads  : — Teaching  ;  including  doctrine,  warn- 
ing, and  comfort :  Discipline  ;  including  reproof  and  direct 
administration  of  punishment.  Either  of  which  functions 
would  naturally  become  vested  in  single  persons,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  others,  as  a  mere  matter  of  convenience  :  whether 
those  persons  were  wiser  and  better  than  others  or  not :  and 
respecting  each  of  which,  and  the  authority  required  for  its 
fitting  discharge,  a  short  inquiry  must  be  separately  made. 

I.  Teaching. — It  appears  natural  and  wise  that  certain  men 
should  be  set  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  Church  that  they  may 
make  Theology  the  study  of  their  lives  :  and  that  they  should 
be  thereto  instructed  specially  in  the  Hebrew  and  Greek 
tongues  ;  and  have  entire  leisure  granted  them  for  the  study 
of  the  Scriptures,  and  for  obtaining  general  knowledge  of  the 
grounds  of  Faith,  and  best  modes  of  its  defence  against  all 
heretics :  and  it  seems  evidently  right  also,  that  with  this 
Scholastic  duty  should  be  joined  the  Pastoral  duty  of  constant 
visitation  and  exhortation  to  the  people  ;  for,  clearly,  the 

*  Qovaia,  in  1  Cor.  ix.  12.    2  Thess.  iii.  9. 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SUEEPFOLDS, 


403 


Bible,  and  the  truths  of  Divinity  in  general,  can  only  be  un- 
derstood rightly  in  their  practical  application  ;  and  clearly, 
also,  a  man  spending  his  time  constantly  in  spiritual  ministra- 
tions, must  be  better  able,  on  any  given  occasion,  to  deal 
powerfully  with  the  human  heart  than  one  unpractised  in  such 
matters.  The  unity  of  Knowledge  and  Love,  both  devoted 
altogether  to  the  service  of  Christ  and  his  Church,  marks  the 
true  Christian  Minister  ;  who  I  believe,  whenever  he  has  ex- 
isted, has  never  failed  to  receive  due  and  fitting  reverence 
from  all  men, — of  whatever  character  or  opinion  ;  and  I  believe 
that  if  all  those  who  profess  to  be  such,  were  such  indeed, 
there  would  never  be  question  of  their  authority  more. 

But,  whatever  influence  they  may  have  over  the  Church, 
their  authority  never  supersedes  that  of  either  the  intellect  or 
the  conscience  of  the  simplest  of  its  lay  members.  They  can 
assist  those  members  in  the  search  for  truth,  or  comfort  their 
overworn  and  doubtful  minds ;  they  can  even  assure  them 
that  they  are  in  the  way  of  truth,  or  that  pardon  is  w7ithin 
their  reach  :  but  they  can  neither  manifest  the  truth  nor  grant 
the  pardon.  Truth  is  to  be  discovered,  and  Pardon  to  be  won 
for  every  man  by  himself.  This  is  evident  from  innumerable 
texts  of  Scripture,  but  chiefly  from  those  which  exhort  every 
man  to  seek  after  Truth,  and  which  connect  knowing  with  do- 
ing. We  are  to  seek  after  knowledge  as  silver,  and  search 
for  her  as  for  hid  treasures ;  therefore,  from  every  man  she 
must  be  naturally  hid,  and  the  discovery  of  her  is  to  be  the 
reward  only  of  personal  search.  The  kingdom  of  God  is  as 
treasure  hid  in  a  field  ;  and  of  those  who  profess  to  help  us 
to  seek  for  it,  we  are  not  to  put  confidence  in  those  who  say, 
— Here  is  the  treasure,  we  have  found  it,  and  have  it,  and  will 
give  you  some  of  it  ;  but  to  those  who  say, — We  think  that 
is  a  good  place  to  dig,  and  you  will  dig  most  easily  in  such 
and  such  a  way. 

Farther,  it  has  been  promised  that  if  such  earnest  search  be 
made,  Truth  shall  be  discovered  :  as  much  truth,  that  is,  as  is 
necessary  for  the  person  seeking.  These,  therefore,  I  hold, 
for  two  fundamental  principles  of  religion, — that,  without 
seeking,  truth  cannot  be  known  at  all  ;  and  that,  by  seeking, 


404 


NOTES  ON  THE 


it  may  be  discovered  by  the  simplest.  I  say,  without  seeking 
it  cannot  be  known  at  all.  It  can  neither  be  declared  from 
pulpits,  nor  set  down  in  Articles,  nor  in  any  wise  "pre- 
pared and  sold  "  in  packages,  ready  for  use.  Truth  must  be 
ground  for  every  man  by  himself  out  of  its  husk,  with  such, 
help  as  he  can  get,  indeed,  but  not  without  stern  labor  of 
his  own.  In  what  science  is  knowledge  to  be  had  cheap  ?  or 
truth  to  be  told  over  a  velvet  cushion,  in  half  an  hour's  talk 
every  seventh  day  ?  Can  you  learn  chemistry  so  ? — zoology  ? — 
anatomy  ?  and  do  you  expect  to  penetrate  the  secret  of  all  se- 
crets, and  to  know  that  whose  price  is  above  rubies  ;  and  of 
which  the  depth  saith, — It  is  not  in  me,  in  so  easy  fashion  ? 
There  are  doubts  in  this  matter  which  evil  spirits  darken 
with  their  wings,  and  that  is  true  of  all  such  doubts  which 
we  were  told  long  ago — they  can  "be  ended  by  action 
alone."  * 

As  surely  as  we  live,  this  truth  of  truths  can  only  so  be  dis- 
cerned :  to  those  who  act  on  what  they  know,  more  shall  be 
revealed  ;  and  thus,  if  any  man  will  do  His  will,  he  shall  know 
the  doctrine  whether  it  be  ol  God.  Any  man  : — not  the  man 
who  has  most  means  of  knowing,  who  has  the  subtlest  brains, 
or  sits  under  the  most  orthodox  preacher,  or  has  his  library 
fullest  of  most  orthodox  books — but  the  man  who  strives  to 
know,  who  takes  God  at  His  word,  and  sets  himself  to  dig  up 
the  heavenly  mystery,  roots  and  all,  before  sunset,  and  the 
night  come,  when  no  man  can  work.  Beside  such  a  man,  God 
stands  in  more  and  more  visible  presence  as  he  toils,  and 
teaches  him  that  which  no  preacher  can  teach— no  earthly  au- 

*  (Carlyle,  Past  and  Present,  Chap,  xi.)  Can  anything  be  more  strik- 
ing than  the  repeated  warnings  of  St.  Paul  against  strife  of  words  ;  and 
his  distinct  setting  forth  of  Action  as  the  only  true  means  of  attaining 
knowledge  of  the  truth,  and  the  only  sign  of  men's  possessing  the  true 
faith?  Compare  1  Timothy  vi.  4,  20,  (the  latter  verse  especially,  in  con- 
nection with  the  previous  three,)  and  2  Timothy  ii.  14,  19,  22,  23,  trac- 
ing the  connection  here  also  ;  add  Titus  i.  10,  14,  16,  noting  "in  ivories 
they  deny  him,"  and  Titus  iii.  8,  9,  "affirm  constantly  that  they  be 
careful  to  maintain  good  works ;  but  avoid  foolish  questions  ;  "  and 
finally,  1  Timothy  i.  4—7 :  a  passage  which  seems  to  have  been  espe- 
cially written  for  these  times. 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


405 


tliority  gainsay.  By  such  a  man,  the  preacher  must  himself 
be  judged. 

Doubt  you  this  ?  There  is  nothing  more  certain  nor  clear 
throughout  the  Bible  :  the  Apostles  themselves  appeal  con- 
stantly to  their  flocks,  and  actually  claim  judgment  from 
them,  as  deserving  it,  and  having  a  right  to  it,  rather  than 
discouraging  it.  But,  first  notice  the  way  in  which  the  dis- 
covery of  truth  is  spoken  of  in  the  Old  Testament :  "  Evil 
men  understand  not  judgment  ;  but  they  that  seek  the  Lord 
understand  all  things, "  Proverbs  xxviii.  5.  God  overthroweth, 
not  merely  the  transgressor  or  the  wicked,  but  even  "the 
words  of  the  transgressor,"  Proverbs  xxii.  12,  and  "  the  coun- 
sel of  the  wicked,"  Job  v.  13,  xxi.  16  ;  observe  again,  in  Prov- 
erbs xxiv.  4,  "  My  son,  eat  thou  honey,  because  it  is  good — 
so  shall  the  knowledge  of  wisdom  be  unto  thy  soul,  when  thou 
hast  found  it,  there  shall  be  a  reward  ;  "  and  again,  "  What 
man  is  he  that  feareth  the  Lord?  him  shall  he  teach  in  the 
way  that  he  shall  choose  ; 79  so  Job  xxxii.  8,  and  multitudes  of 
places  more  ;  and  then,  with  all  these  places,  which  express 
the  definite  and  personal  operation  of  the  Spirit  of  God  on 
every  one  of  His  people,  compare  the  place  in  Isaiah,  which 
speaks  of  the  contrary  of  this  human  teaching  :  a  passage 
which  seems  as  if  it  had  been  written  for  this  very  day  and 
hour.  "  Because  their  fear  towards  me  is  taught  by  the  pre- 
cept of  men  ;  therefore,  behold  the  wisdom  of  their  wise  men 
shall  perish,  and  the  understanding  of  their  prudent  men  shall 
be  hid."  (xxix.  13,  14.)  Then  take  the  New  Testament,  and 
observe  how  St.  Paul  himself  speaks  of  the  Romans,  even  as 
hardly  needing  his  epistle,  but  able  to  admonish  one  another; 
"  Nevertheless,  brethren,  I  have  written  the  more  boldly  unto  you 
in  some  sort,  as  putting  you  in  mind"  (xv.  15.)  Any  one,  we 
should  have  thought,  might  have  done  as  much  as  this,  and 
yet  St.  Paul  increases  the  modesty  of  it  as  he  goes  on  ;  for  he 
claims  the  right  of  doing  as  much  as  this,  only  "  because  of 
the  grace  given  to  me  of  God,  that  I  should  be  the  minister 
of  Jesus  Christ  to  the  Gentiles."  Then  compare  2  Cor.  v.  11, 
where  he  appeals  to  the  consciences  of  the  people  for  the 
manifestation  of  his  having  done  his  duty  ;  and  observe  in 


406 


NOTES  ON  THE 


verse  21  of  that,  and  1  of  the  next  chapter,  the  "  pray  99  and 
" beseech,"  not  "command  and  again,  in  chapter  vi.  verse 
4,  "approving  ourselves  as  the  ministers  of  God."  But  the 
most  remarkable  passage  of  all  is  2  Cor.  iii.  1,  whence  it  ap- 
pears that  the  churches  were  actually  in  the  habit  of  giving 
letters  of  recommendation  to  their  ministers  ;  and  St.  Paul 
dispenses  with  such  letters,  not  by  virtue  of  his  Apostolic 
authority,  but  because  the  power  of  his  preaching  was  enough 
manifested  in  the  Corinthians  themselves.  And  these  passages 
are  all  the  more  forcible,  because  if  in  any  of  them  St.  Paul 
had  claimed  absolute  authority  over  the  Church  as  a  teacher, 
it  was  no  more  than  we  should  have  expected  him  to  claim, 
nor  could  his  doing  so  have  in  anywise  justified  a  successor 
in  the  same  claim.  But  now  that  he  has  not  claimed  it— who, 
following  him,  shall  dare  to  claim  it  ?  And  the  consideration 
of  the  necessity  of  joining  expressions  of  the  most  exemplary 
humility,  which  were  to  be  the  example  of  succeeding  minis- 
ters, with  such  assertion  of  Divine  authority  as  should  secure 
acceptance  for  the  epistle  itself  in  the  sacred  canon,  sufficiently 
accounts  for  the  apparent  inconsistencies  which  occur  in  2 
Thess.  iii.  14,  and  other  such  texts. 

So  much,  then,  for  the  authority  of  the  Clergy  in  matters 
of  Doctrine.  Next,  what  is  their  authority  in  matters  of  Dis- 
cipline. It  must  evidently  be  very  great,  even  if  it  were  de- 
rived from  the  people  alone,  and  merely  vested  in  the  clerical 
officers  as  the  executors  of  their  ecclesiastical  judgments,  and 
general  overseers  of  all  the  Church.  But  granting,  as  we  must 
presently,  the  minister  to  hold  office  directly  from  God,  his 
authority  of  discipline  becomes  very  great  indeed  ;  how  great, 
it  seems  to  me  most  difficult  to  determine,  because  I  do  not 
understand  what  St.  Paul  means  by  "  delivering  a  man  to  Satan 
for  the  destruction  of  the  flesh."  Leaving  this  question,  how- 
ever, as  much  too  hard  for  casual  examination,  it  seems  indis- 
putable that  the  authority  of  the  Ministers  or  court  of  Ministers 
should  extend  to  the  pronouncing  a  man  Excommunicate 
for  certain  crimes  against  the  Church,  as  well  as  for  all  crimes 
punishable  by  ordinary  law.  There  ought,  I  think,  to  be  an 
ecclesiastical  code  of  laws  ;  and  a  man  ought  to  have  jury  trial, 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


407 


according  to  this  code,  before  an  ecclesiastical  judge  ;  in  which, 
if  he  were  found  guilty,  as  of  lying,  or  dishonesty,  or  cruelty, 
much  more  of  any  actually  committed  violent  crime,  he  should 
be  pronounced  Excommunicate  ;  refused  the  Sacrament  ;  and 
have  his  name  written  in  some  public  place  as  an  excommuni- 
cate person  until  he  had  publicly  confessed  his  sin  and  be- 
sought pardon  of  God  for  it.  The  jury  should  always  be  of 
the  laity,  and  no  penalty  should  be  enforced  in  an  ecclesiasti- 
cal court  except  this  of  excommunication. 

This  proposal  may  sound  strange  to  many  persons  ;  but  as- 
suredly this,  if  not  much  more  than  this,  is  commanded  in 
Scripture,  first  in  the  (much  abused)  text,  <c  Tell  it  unto  the 
Church  ; "  and  most  clearly  in  1  Cor.  v.  11—13  ;  2  Thess.  iii. 
G  and  14  ;  1  Tim.  v.  8  and  20  ;  and  Titus  iii.  10  ;  from  which 
passages  we  also  know  the  two  proper  degrees  of  the  penalty. 
For  Christ  says,  Let  him  who  refuses  to  hear  the  Church,  "  be 
unto  thee  as  an  heathen  man  and  a  publican."  But  Christ 
ministered  to  the  heathen,  and  sat  at  meat  with  the  publican  ; 
only  always  with  declared  or  implied  expression  of  their  in- 
feriority ;  here,  therefore,  is  one  degree  of  excommunication 
for  persons  who  "offend  "their  brethren;  committing  some 
minor  fault  against  them  ;  and  who,  having  been  pronounced 
in  error  by  the  body  of  the  Church,  refuse  to  confess  their 
fault  or  repair  it ;  who  are  then  to  be  no  longer  considered 
members  of  the  Church  ;  and  their  recovery  to  the  body  of  it 
is  to  be  sought  exactly  as  it  would  be  in  the  case  of  a  heathen. 
But  covetous  persons,  railers,  extortioners,  idolaters,  and 
those  guilty  of  other  gross  crimes,  are  to  be  entirely  cut  off 
from  the  company  of  the  believers  j  and  we  are  not  so  much 
as  to  eat  with  them.  This  last  penalty,  however,  would  re- 
quire to  be  strictly  guarded,  that  it  might  not  be  abused  in 
the  infliction  of  it,  as  it  has  been  by  the  Bomanists.  We  are 
not,  indeed,  to  eat  with  them,  but  we  may  exercise  all  Chris- 
tian charity  towards  them,  and  give  them  to  eat,  if  we  see 
them  in  hunger,  as  we  ought  to  all  our  enemies  ;  only  we  are 
to  consider  them  distinctly  as  our  enemies :  that  is  to  say, 
enemies  of  our  Master  Christ ;  and  servants  of  Satan. 

As  for  the  rank  or  name  of  the  officers  in  whom  the  authori- 


408 


NOTES  ON  THE 


ties,  either  of  teaching  or  discipline,  are  to  be  vested,  they  are 
left  undetermined  by  Scripture.  I  have  heard  it  said  by  men 
who  know  their  Bible  far  better  than  I,  that  careful  examina- 
tion may  detect  evidence  of  the  existence  of  three  orders  of 
Clergy  in  the  Church.  This  may  be  ;  but  one  thing  is  very 
clear,  without  any  laborious  examination,  that  "  bishop  "  and 
"  elder  "  sometimes  mean  the  same  thing,  as,  indisputably,  in 
Titus  i.  5  and  7,  and  1  Pet.  v.  1  and  2,  and  that  the  office  of 
the  bishop  or  overseer  was  one  of  considerably  less  impor- 
tance than  it  is  with  us.  This  is  palpably  evident  from  1 
Timothy  iii.,  for  what  divine  among  us,  writing  of  episcopal 
proprieties,  would  think  of  saying  that  bishops  "  must  not  be 
given  to  wine/'  must  be  "  no  strikers,"  and  must  not  be 
"  novices  ?  ?  We  are  not  in  the  habit  of  making  bishops  of 
novices  in  these  days  ;  and  it  would  be  much  better  that,  like 
the  early  Church,  we  sometimes  ran  the  risk  of  doing  so  ;  for 
the  fact  is  we  have  not  bishops  enough — by  some  hundreds. 
The  idea  of  overseership  has  been  practically  lost  sight  of,  its 
fulfilment  having  gradually  become  physically  impossible,  for 
want  of  more  bishops.  The  duty  of  a  bishop  is,  without 
doubt,  to  be  accessible  to  the  humblest  clergymen  of  his  dio- 
cese, and  to  desire  very  earnestly  that  all  of  them  should  be 
in  the  habit  of  referring  to  him  in  all  cases  of  difficulty  ;  if 
they  do  not  do  this  of  their  own  accord,  it  is  evidently  his 
duty  to  visit  them  ;  live  with  them  sometimes,  and  join  in 
their  ministrations  to  their  flocks,  so  as  to  know  exactly  the 
capacities,  and  habits  of  life  of  each  ;  and  if  any  of  them  com- 
plained of  this  or  that  difficulty  with  their  congregations,  the 
bishop  should  be  ready  to  go  down  to  help  them,  preach  for 
them,  write  general  epistles  to  their  people,  and  so  on  :  be- 
sides this,  he  should  of  course  be  watchful  of  their  errors — 
ready  to  hear  complaints  from  their  congregations  of  ineffi- 
ciency or  aught  else  ;  besides  having  general  superintendence 
of  all  the  charitable  institutions  and  schools  in  his  diocese, 
and  good  knowledge  of  whatever  was  going  on  in  theological 
matters,  both  all  over  the  kingdom  and  on  the  continent. 
This  is  the  work  of  a  right  overseer  ;  and  I  leave  the  reader 
to  calculate  how  many  additional  bishops — and  those  hard- 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SI1EEPF0LDS. 


409 


working  men,  too — we  should  need  to  have  it  done  even  de- 
cently. Then  our  present  bishops  might  all  become  arch- 
bishops with  advantage,  and  have  general  authority  over  the 
rest.* 

As  to  the  mode  in  which  the  officers  of  the  Church  should 
be  elected  or  appointed,  I  do  not  feel  it  my  business  to  say 
anything  at  present,  nor  much  respecting  the  extent  of  their 
authority,  either  over  each  other  or  over  the  congregation, 
this  being  a  most  difficult  question,  the  right  solution  of 
which  evidently  lies  between  two  most  dangerous  extremes — 
insubordination  and  radicalism  on  one  hand,  and  ecclesiasti- 
cal tyranny  and  heresy  on  the  other :  of  the  two,  insubordi- 
nation is  far  the  least  to  be  dreaded — for  this  reason,  that 
nearly  all  real  Christians  are  more  on  the  watch  against  their 
pride  than  their  indolence,  and  would  sooner  obey  their  cler- 
gyman, if  possible,  than  contend  with  him  ;  wThile  the  very 
pride  they  suppose  conquered  often  returns  masked,  and 
causes  them  to  make  a  merit  of  their  humility  and  their  ab- 
stract obedience,  however  unreasonable  :  but  they  cannot  so 
easily  persuade  themselves  there  is  a  merit  in  abstract  disobe- 
dience. 

Ecclesiastical  tyranny  has,  for  the  most  part,  founded  itself 
on  the  idea  of  Vicarianism,  one  of  the  most  pestilent  of  the 
Romanist  theories,  and  most  plainly  denounced  in  Scripture. 
Of  this  I  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  the  modern  "  Vicarian." 
All  powers  that  be  are  unquestionably  ordained  of  God  ;  so 

*  I  leave,  in  the  main  text,  the  abstract  question  of  the  fitness  of  Epis- 
copacy unapproached,  not  feeling  any  call  to  speak  of  it  at  length  at 
present  ;  all  that  I  feel  necessary  to  be  said  is,  that  bishops  being- 
granted,  it  is  clear  that  we  have  too  few  to  do  their  work.  But  the  ar- 
gument from  the  practice  of  the  Primitive  Church  appears  to  me  to  be 
of  erroneous  weight, — nor  have  I  ever  heard  any  rational  plea  alleged 
against  Episcopacy,  except  that,  like  other  things,  it  is  capable  of  abuse, 
and  had  sometimes  been  abused ;  and  as,  altogether  clearly  and  indis- 
putably, there  is  described  in  the  Bible  an  episcopal  office,  distinct 
from  the  merely  ministerial  one  ;  and,  apparently,  also  an  Episcopal 
officer  attached  to  each  church,  and  distinguished  in  the  Revelations  as 
an  Angel,  I  hold  the  resistance  of  the  Scotch  Presbyterian  Church  to 
Episcopacy  to  be  unscriptural,  futile,  and  schismatic. 


410 


NOTES  ON  THE 


that  they  that  resist  the  Power,  resist  the  ordinance  of  God. 
Therefore,  say  some  in  these  offices,  We,  being  ordained  oi 
God,  and  having  our  credentials,  and  being  in  the  English 
Bible  called  ambassadors  for  God,  do,  in  a  sort,  represent 
God.  We  are  Vicars  of  Christ,  and  stand  on  earth  in  place 
of  Christ.    I  have  heard  this  said  by  Protestant  clergymen. 

Now  the  word  ambassador  has  a  peculiar  ambiguity  about 
it,  owing  to  its  use  in  modern  political  affairs ;  and  these 
clergymen  assume  that  the  word,  as  used  by  St.  Paul,  means 
an  Ambassador  Plenipotentiary  ;  representative  of  his  King, 
and  capable  of  acting  for  his  King.  What  right  have  they  to 
assume  that  St.  Paul  meant  this  ?  St.  Paul  never  uses  the 
word  ambassador  at  all.  He  says  simply,  "  We  are  in  embas- 
sage from  Christ ;  and  Christ  beseeches  you  through  us." 
Most  true.  And  let  it  further  be  granted,  that  every  word 
that  the  clergyman  speaks  is  literally  dictated  to  him  by 
Christ ;  that  he  can  make  no  mistake  in  delivering  his  mes- 
sage ;  and  that,  therefore,  it  is  indeed  Christ  himself  who 
speaks  to  us  the  word  of  life  through  the  messenger's  lips. 
Does,  therefore,  the  messenger  represent  Christ  ?  Does  the 
channel  which  conveys  the  waters  of  the  Fountain  represent 
the  Fountain  itself  ?  Suppose,  when  we  went  to  draw  water 
at  a  cistern,  that  all  at  once  the  Leaden  Spout  should  become 
animated,  and  open  its  mouth  and  say  to  us,  See,  I  am  Vica- 
rious for  the  Fountain.  Whatever  respect  you  show  to  the 
Fountain,  show  some  part  of  it  to  me.  Should  we  not  answer 
the  Spout,  and  say,  Spout,  you  were  set  there  for  our  service, 
and  may  be  taken  away  and  thrown  aside  *  if  anything  goes 
wrong  with  you.    But  the  Fountain  will  flow  for  ever. 

Observe,  I  do  not  deny  a  most  solemn  authority  vested  in 
every  Christian  messenger  from  God  to  men.  I  am  prepared 
to  grant  this  to  the  uttermost  ;  and  all  that  George  Herbert 
says,  in  the  end  of  the  Church-porch,  I  would  enforce,  at 
another  time  than  this,  to  the  uttermost.  But  the  Authority 
is  simply  that  of  a  King's  messenger ;  not  of  a  King's  Repre* 
tentative.  There  is  a  wide  difference  ;  all  the  difference  be- 
tween humble  service  and  blasphemous  usurpation. 

*  u  By  just  judgment  be  deposed/'  Art.  26. 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


411 


Well,  the  congregation  might  ask,  grant  him  a  King's  mes- 
senger in  cases  of  doctrine, — in  cases  of  discipline,  an  officer 
bearing  the  King's  commission.  How  far  are  we  to  obey 
iiim  ?    How  far  is  it  lawful  to  dispute  his  commands  ? 

For,  in  granting,  above,  that  the  Messenger  always  gave 
his  message  faithfully,  I  granted  too  much  to  my  adversaries, 
in  order  that  their  argument  might  have  all  the  weight  it  pos- 
sibly could.  The  Messengers  rarely  deliver  their  message 
faithfully  ;  and  sometimes  have  declared,  as  from  the  King, 
messages  of  their  own  invention.  How  far  are  we,  knowing 
them  for  King's  messengers,  to  believe  or  obey  them  ? 

Suppose  for  instance,  in  our  English  army,  on  the  eve  of 
some  great  battle,  one  of  the  colonels  were  to  give  this  order 
to  his  regiment.  "  My  men,  tie  your  belts  over  your  eyes, 
throw  down  your  muskets,  and  follow  me  as  steadily  as  you 
can,  through  this  marsh,  into  the  middle  of  the  enemy's  line," 
(this  being  precisely  the  order  issued  by  our  Puseyite  Church 
officers.)  It  might  be  questioned,  in  the  real  battle,  wrhether 
it  would  be  better  that  a  regiment  should  show  an  example 
of  insubordination,  or  be  cut  to  pieces.  But  happily  in  the 
Church,  there  is  no  such  difficulty  ;  for  the  King  is  always 
with  his  army  :  Not  only  with  his  army,  but  at  the  right 
hand  of  every  soldier  of  it.  Therefore,  if  any  of  their  col- 
onels give  them  a  strange  command,  all  they  have  to  do  is  to 
ask  the  King  ;  and  never  yet  any  Christian  asked  guidance  of 
his  King,  in  any  difficulty  whatsoever,  without  mental  reser- 
vation or  secret  resolution,  but  he  had  it  forthwith.  We  con- 
clude then,  finally,  that  the  authority  of  the  Clergy  is,  in  mat- 
ters of  discipline,  large  (being  executive,  first,  of  the  written 
laws  of  God,  and  secondly,  of  those  determined  and  agreed 
upon  by  the  body  of  the  Church),  in  matters  of  doctrine,  de- 
pendent on  their  recommending  themselves  to  every  man's 
conscience,  both  as  messengers  of  God,  and  as  themselves 
men  of  God,  perfect,  and  instructed  to  good  works."  * 

*  The  difference  between  the  authority  of  doctrine  and  discipline  is 
"beautifully  marked  in  2  Timothy  ii.  25,  and  Titus  ii.  12 — 15.  In  the 
first  passage,  the  servant  of  God,  teaching  divine  doctrine,  must  not 
strive,  but  must  "  in  meekness  instruct  those  that  oppose  themselves;  "  in 


412 


NOTES  ON  THE 


6.  The  last  subject  which  we  had  to  investigate  was,  it  will 
be  remembered,  what  is  usually  called  the  connection  of 
"Church  and  State."  But,  by  our  definition  of  the  term 
Church,  throughout  the  whole  of  Christendom,  the  Church 
(or  society  of  professing  Christians)  is  the  State,  and  our  sub- 
ject is  therefore,  properly  speaking,  the  connection  of  the  lay 
and  clerical  officers  of  the  Church  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  degrees 
in  which  the  civil  and  ecclesiastical  governments  ought  to  in- 
terfere with  or  influence  each  other. 

It  would  of  course  be  vain  to  attempt  a  formal  inquiry  into 
this  intricate  subject ; — I  have  only  a  few  detached  points  to 
notice  respecting  it. 

There  are  three  degrees  or  kinds  of  civil  government.  The 
first  and  lowest,  executive  merely  ;  the  government  in  this 
sense  being  simply  the  National  Hand,  and  composed  of  indi- 
viduals who  administer  the  laws  of  the  nation,  and  execute  its 
established  purposes. 

The  second  kind  of  government  is  deliberative  ;  but  in  its 
deliberation,  representative  only  of  the  thoughts  and  will  of 
the  people  or  nation,  and  liable  to  be  deposed  the  instant  it 
ceases  to  express  those  thoughts  and  that  will.  This,  whatever 
its  form,  whether  centred  in  a  king  or  in  any  number  of  men, 
is  properly  to  be  called  Democratic.  The  third  and  highest 
kind  of  government  is  deliberative,  not  as  representative  of 
the  people,  but  as  chosen  to  take  separate  counsel  for  them, 
and  having  power  committed  to  it,  to  enforce  upon  them 
wdiatever  resolution  it  may  adopt,  whether  consistent  with 
their  will  or  not.  This  government  is  properly  to  be  called 
Monarchical,  whatever  its  form. 

I  see  that  politicians  and  writers  of  history  continually  run 
into  hopeless  error,  because  they  confuse  the  Form  of  a  gov- 
ernment with  its  Nature.  A  government  may  be  nominally 
vested  in  an  individual ;  and  yet  if  that  individual  be  in  such 
fear  of  those  beneath  him,  that  he  does  nothing  but  what  he 

the  second  passage,  teaching  us  "  that  denying  ungodliness  and  worldly 
lusts  he  is  to  live  soberly,  righteously,  and  godly  in  t\\\$  present  world,"  the 
minister  is  to  speak,  exhort,  and  rebuke  with  all  authority — both 
functions  being  expressed  as  united  in  2  Timothy  iv.  3. 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SUEEPFOLDS. 


413 


supposes  will  be  agreeable  to  them,  the  Government  is  Demo- 
cratic ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  Government  may  be  vested  in 
a  deliberative  assembly  of  a  thousand  men,  all  having  equal 
authority,  and  all  chosen  from  the  lowest  ranks  of  the  people  ; 
and  yet  if  that  assembly  act  independently  of  the  will  of  the 
people,  and  have  no  fear  of  them,  and  enforce  its  determina- 
tions upon  them,  the  government  is  Monarchical  ;  that  is  to 
say,  the  Assembly,  acting  as  One,  has  power  over  the  Many, 
while  in  the  case  of  the  weak  king,  the  Many  have  powei  over 
the  One. 

A  Monarchical  Government,  acting  for  its  own  interests,  in- . 
stead  of  the  people's,  is  a  tyranny.    I  said  the  Executive  Gov- 
ernment was  the  hand  of  the  nation  ; — the  Kepublican  Govern- 
ment is  in  like  manner  its  tongue.  The  Monarchical  Government 
is  its  head. 

All  true  and  right  Government  is  Monarchical,  and  of  the 
head.  What  is  its  best  form,  is  a  totally  different  question  ; 
but  unless  it  act  for  the  people,  and  not  as  representative  of 
the  people,  it  is  no  government  at  all ;  and  one  of  the  gross- 
est blockheadisms  of  the  English  in  the  present  day,  is  their 
idea  of  sending  men  to  Parliament  to  "  represent  their  opin- 
ions." Whereas  their  only  true  business  is  to  find  out  the 
wisest  men  among  them,  and  send  them  to  Parliament  to 
represent  their  otvn  opinions,  and  act  upon  them.  Of  all  pup- 
pet shows  in  the  Satanic  Carnival  of  the  earth,  the  most  con- 
temptible puppet-show  is  a  Parliament  with  a  mob  pulling  the 
strings. 

Now,  of  these  three  states  of  government,  it  is  clear  that 
the  merely  executive  can  have  no  proper  influence  over  eccle- 
siastical affairs.  But  of  the  other  two,  the  first,  being  the 
voice  of  the  people,  or  voice  of  the  Church,  must  have  such 
influence  over  the  Clergy  as  is  properly  vested  in  the  body  of 
the  Church.  The  second,  which  stands  in  the  same  relation 
to  the  people  as  a  father  does  to  his  family,  will  have  such 
farther  influence  over  ecclesiastical  matters,  as  a  father  has 
over  the  consciences  of  his  adult  children.  No  absolute  au- 
thority, therefore,  to  enforce  their  attendance  at  any  particular 
place  of  worship,  or  subscription  to  any  particular  Creed. 


414 


NOTES  ON  THE 


But  indisputable  authority  to  procure  for  them  such  religious 
instruction  as  he  deems  fittest,*  and  to  recommend  it  to  them 
by  every  means  in  his  power  ;  he  not  only  has  authority,  but 
is  under  obligation  to  do  this,  as  well  as  to  establish  such  dis- 
ciplines and  forms  of  worship  in  his  house  as  he  deems  most 
convenient  for  his  family  :  with  which  they  are  indeed  at  lib- 
erty to  refuse  compliance,  if  such  disciplines  appear  to  them 
clearly  opposed  to  the  law  of  God  ;  but  not  without  most 
solemn  conviction  of  their  being  so,  nor  without  deep  sorrow 
to  be  compelled  to  such  a  course. 

But  it  may  be  said,  the  Government  of  a  people  never  does 
stand  to  them  in  the  relation  of  a  father  to  his  family.  If  it  do 
not,  it  is  no  Government.    However  grossly  it  may  fail  in  its 

*  Observe,  this  and  the  following  conclusions  depend  entirely  on  the 
supposition  that  the  Government  is  part  of  the  Body  of  the  Church,  and 
that  some  pains  have  been  taken  to  compose  it  of  religious  and  wise 
men.  If  we  choose,  knowingly  and  deliberately,  to  compose  our  Parlia- 
ment, in  great  part,  of  infidels  and  Papists,  gamblers  and  debtors,  we 
may  well  regret  its  power  over  the  Clerical  officer  ;  but  that  we  should, 
at  any  time,  so  compose  our  Parliament,  is  a  sign  that  the  Clergy  them- 
selves have  failed  in  their  duty,  and  the  Church  in  its  watchfulness ; — 
thus  the  evil  accumulates  in  re-action.  Whatever  I  say  of  the  responsi- 
bility or  authority  of  Government,  is  therefore  to  be  understood  only  as 
sequent  on  what  I  have  said  previously  of  the  necessity  of  closely  cir- 
cumscribing the  Church,  and  then  composing  the  Civil  Government  out 
of  the  circumscribed  Body.  Thus,  all  Papists  would  at  once  be  ren- 
dered incapable  of  share  in  it,  being  subjected  to  the  second  or  most 
severe  degree  of  excommunication — first,  as  idolaters,  by  1  Cor.  v.  10  ; 
then,  as  covetous  and  extortioners,  (selling  absolution,)  by  the  same  text ; 
and,  finally,  as  heretics  and  maintainers  of  falsehoods,  by  Titus  iii.  10, 
and  1  Tim.  iv.  1. 

I  do  not  write  this  hastily,  nor  without  earnest  consideration  both  of 
the  difficulty  and  the  consequences  of  such  Church  Discipline.  But 
either  the  Bible  is  a  superannuated  book,  and  is  only  to  be  read  as  a 
record  of  past  days  ;  or  these  things  follow  from  it,  clearly  and  inevit- 
ably. That  we  live  in  days  when  the  Bible  has  become  impracticable, 
is  (if  it  be  so)  the  very  thing  I  desire  to  be  considered.  I  am  not  setting 
down  these  plans  or  schemes  as  at  present  possible.  I  do  not  know  how 
far  they  are  possible  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  God  has  plainly  com- 
manded them,  and  that,  therefore,  their  impracticability  is  a  thing  to  bfl 
meditated  on. 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  8HEEPF0LDS. 


415 


duty,  and  however  little  it  may  be  fitted  for  its  place,  if  it  be 
a  Government  at  all,  it  has  paternal  office  and  relation  to  the 
people.  I  find  it  written  on  the  one  hand, — "  Honor  thy 
Father  on  the  other, — "  Honor  the  King  ;"  on  the  one  hand, 
— "  Whoso  smiteth  his  Father,  shall  be  put  to  death  •  on 
the  other, — "  They  that  resist  shall  receive  to  themselves 
damnation."  Well,  but,  it  may  be  farther  argued,  the  Clergy 
are  in  a  still  more  solemn  sense  the  Fathers  of  the  People,  and 
the  People  are  the  beloved  Sons  ;  why  should  not,  therefore, 
the  Clergy  have  the  power  to  govern  the  civil  officers  ? 
For  two  very  clear  reasons. 

In  all  human  institutions  certain  evils  are  granted,  as  of 
necessity  ;  and,  in  organizing  such  institutions,  we  must  allow 
for  the  consequences  of  such  evils,  and  make  arrangements 
such  as  may  best  keep  them  in  check.  Now,  in  both  the 
civil  and  ecclesiastical  governments  there  will  of  necessity  be 
a  certain  number  of  bad  men.  The  wicked  civilian  has  com- 
paratively little  interest  in  overthrowing  ecclesiastical  author- 
ity ;  it  is  often  a  useful  help  to  him,  and  presents  in  itself 
little  which  seems  covetable.  But  the  wicked  ecclesiastical 
officer  has  much  interest  in  overthrowing  the  civilian,  and 
getting  the  political  power  into  his  own  hands.  As  far  as 
wicked  men  are  concerned,  therefore,  it  is  better  that  the 
State  should  have  power  over  the  Clergy,  than  the  Clergy 
over  the  State. 

Secondly,  supposing  both  the  Civil  and  Ecclesiastical  officer 
to  be  Christians  ;  there  is  no  fear  that  the  civil  officer  should 
under-rate  the  dignity  or  shorten  the  serviceableness  of  the 
minister  ;  but  there  is  considerable  danger  that  the  religious 
enthusiasm  of  the  minister  might  diminish  the  serviceableness 
of  the  civilian.  (The  History  of  Eeligious  Enthusiasm  should 
be  written  by  some  one  who  had  a  life  to  give  to  its  investi- 
gation ;  it  is  one  of  the  most  melancholy  pages  in  human 
records,  and  one  the  most  necessary  to  be  studied.)  There- 
fore, so  far  as  good  men  are  concerned,  it  is  better  the  State 
should  have  power  over  the  Clergy,  than  the  Clergy  over  the 
State. 

*  Exod.  xxi,  15. 


416 


NOTES  ON  THE 


This  we  might,  it  seems  to  me,  conclude  by  unassisted  rea« 
son.  But  surely  the  whole  question  is,  without  any  need  of 
human  reason,  decided  by  the  history  of  Israel.  If  ever  a 
body  of  Clergy  should  have  received  independent  authority, 
the  Levitical  Priesthood  should  ;  for  they  were  indeed  a 
Priesthood,  and  more  holy  than  the  rest  of  the  nation.  But 
Aaron  is  always  subject  to  Moses.  All  solemn  revelation  is 
made  to  Moses,  the  civil  magistrate,  and  he  actually  com- 
mands Aaron  as  to  the  fulfilment  of  his  priestly  office,  and 
that  in  a  necessity  of  life  and  death  :  "  Go  and  make  an  atone- 
ment for  the  people."  Nor  is  anything  more  remarkable 
throughout  the  whole  of  the  Jewish  history  than  the  perfect 
subjection  of  the  Priestly  to  the  Kingly  Authority.  Thus 
Solomon  thrusts  out  Abiathar  from  being  priest,  1  Kings  ii. 
27  ;  and  Jehoahaz  administers  the  funds  of  the  Lord's  House, 
2  Kings  xii.  4,  though  that  money  was  actually  the  Atone- 
ment Money,  the  Bansom  for  Souls  (Exod.  xxx.  12). 

We  have,  however,  also  the  beautiful  instance  of  Samuel 
uniting  in  himself  the  offices  of  Priest,  Prophet,  and  Judge ; 
nor  do  I  insist  on  any  special  manner  of  subjection  of  Clergy 
to  civil  officers,  or  vice  versa  ;  but  only  on  the  necessity  of 
their  perfect  unity  and  influence  upon  each  other  in  every 
Christian  Kingdom.  Those  who  endeavor  to  effect  the  utter 
separation  of  ecclesiastical  and  civil  officers,  are  striving,  on 
the  one  hand,  to  expose  the  Clergy  to  the  most  grievous  and 
most  subtle  of  temptations  from  their  own  spiritual  enthusiasm 
and  spiritual  pride  ;  on  the  other,  to  deprive  the  civil  officer 
of  all  sense  of  religious  responsibility,  and  to  introduce  the 
fearful,  godless,  conscienceless,  and  soulless  policy  of  the 
Kadical  and  the  (so  called)  Socialist.  Whereas,  the  ideal  of  all 
government  is  the  perfect  unity  of  the  two  bodies  of  officers, 
each  supporting  and  correcting  the  other ;  the  Clergy  having 
due  weight  in  all  the  national  councils ;  the  civil  officers  hav- 
ing a  solemn  reverence  for  God  in  all  their  acts ;  the  Clergy 
hallowing  all  worldly  policy  by  their  influence  ;  and  the  mag- 
istracy repressing  all  religious  enthusiasm  by  their  practical 
wisdom.  To  separate  the  two  is  to  endeavor  to  separate  the 
daily  life  of  the  nation  from  God,  and  to  map  out  the  domin- 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


417 


ion  of  the  soul  into  two  provinces — one  of  Atheism,  the  other 
of  Enthusiasm.  These,  then,  were  the  reasons  which  caused 
me  to  speak  of  the  idea  of  separation  of  Church  and  State  as 
Fatuity  ;  for  what  Fatuity  can  be  so  great  as  the  not  having 
God  in  our  thoughts  ;  and,  in  any  act  or  office  of  life,  saying 
in  our  hearts,  "There  is  no  God." 

Much  more  I  would  fain  say  of  these  things,  but  not  now  : 
this  only,  I  must  emphatically  assert,  in  conclusion  : — That 
the  schism  between  the  so  called  Evangelical  and  High  Church 
parties  in  Britain,  is  enough  to  shake  many  men's  faith  in  the 
truth  or  existence  of  Religion  at  all.  It  seems  to  me  one  of 
the  most  disgraceful  scenes  in  Ecclesiastical  history,  that  Prot- 
estantism should  be  paralyzed  at  its  very  heart  by  jealousies, 
based  on  little  else  than  mere  difference  between  high  and 
low  breeding.  For  the  essential  differences,  in  the  religious 
opinions  of  the  two  parties,  are  sufficiently  marked  in  two  men 
whom  we  may  take  as  the  highest  representatives  of  each — 
George  Herbert  and  John  Milton  ;  and  I  do  not  think  there 
would  have  been  much  difficulty  in  attuning  those  two,  if  one 
could  have  got  them  together.  But  the  real  difficulty,  nowa- 
days, lies  in  the  sin  and  folly  of  both  parties  :  in  the  supercili- 
ousness of  the  one,  and  the  rudeness  of  the  other.  Evidently, 
however,  the  sin  lies  most  at  the  High  Church  door,  for  the 
Evangelicals  are  much  more  ready  to  act  with  Churchmen 
than  they  with  the  Evangelicals  ;  and  I  believe  that  this  state 
of  things  cannot  continue  much  longer  ;  and  that  if  the  Church 
of  England  does  not  forthwith  unite  with  herself  the  entire 
Evangelical  body,  both  of  England  and  Scotland,  and  take  her 
stand  with  them  against  the  Papacy,  her  hour  has  struck. 
She  cannot  any  longer  serve  two  masters  ;  nor  make  curtsies 
alternately  to  Christ  and  anti-Christ.  That  she  has  done  this 
is  visible  enough  by  the  state  of  Europe  at  this  instant. 
Three  centuries  since  Luther— three  hundred  years  of  Prot- 
estant knowledge — and  the  Papacy  not  yet  overthrown ! 
Christ's  truth  still  restrained,  in  narrow  dawn,  to  the  white 
cliffs  of  England  and  white  crests  of  the  Alps  ;— the  morning 
star  paused  in  its  course  in  heaven  ; — the  sun  and  moon  stayed, 
with  Satan  for  their  Joshua. 


418 


NOTES  ON  THE 


But  how  to  unite  the  two  great  sects  of  paralyzed  Protes- 
tants ?  By  keeping  simply  to  Scripture.  The  members  of  the 
Scottish  Church  have  not  a  shadow  of  excuse  for  refusing 
Episcopacy ;  it  has  indeed  been  abused  among  them ;  griev- 
ously abused  ;  but  it  is  in  the  Bible  ;  and  that  is  all  they 
have  a  right  to  ask. 

They  have  also  no  shadow  of  excuse  for  refusing  to  employ 
a  written  form  of  prayer.  It  may  not  be  to  their  taste — it 
may  not  be  the  way  in  which  they  like  to  pray  ;  but  it  is  no 
question,  at  present,  of  likes  or  dislikes,  but  of  duties  ;  and 
the  acceptance  of  such  a  form  on  their  part  would  go  half 
way  to  reconcile  them  with  their  brethren.  Let  them  allege 
such  objections  as  they  can  reasonably  advance  against  the 
English  form,  and  let  these  be  carefully  and  humbly  weighed 
by  the  pastors  of  both  churches  :  some  of  them  ought  to  be 
at  once  forestalled.  For  the  English  Church,  on  the  other 
hand,  must  cut  the  term  Priest  entirely  out  of  her  Prayer- 
book,  and  substitute  for  it  that  of  Minister  or  Elder  ;  the 
passages  respecting  absolution  must  be  thrown  out  also,  ex- 
cept the  doubtful  one  in  the  Morning  Service,  in  which  there 
is  no  harm  ;  and  then  there  would  be  only  the  Baptismal 
question  left,  which  is  one  of  words  rather  than  of  things, 
and  might  easily  be  settled  in  Synod,  turning  the  refractory 
Clergy  out  of  their  offices,  to  go  to  Borne  if  they  chose. 
Then,  when  the  Articles  of  Faith  and  form  of  worship  had 
been  agreed  upon  between  the  English  and  Scottish  Churches, 
the  written  forms  and  articles  should  be  carefully  translated 
into  the  European  languages,  and  offered  to  the  acceptance 
of  the  Protestant  churches  on  the  Continent,  with  earnest 
entreaty  that  the}^  would  receive  them,  and  due  entertainment 
of  all  such  objections  as  they  could  reasonably  allege  ;  and 
thus  the  whole  body  of  Protestants,  united  in  one  great  Fold, 
would  indeed  go  in  and  out,  and  find  pasture  ;  and  the  work 
appointed  for  them  would  be  done  quickly,  and  Antichrist 
overthrown. 

Impossible  :  a  thousand  times  impossible  ! — I  hear  it  ex- 
claimed against  me.  No — not  impossible.  Christ  does  not 
order  impossibilities,  and  He  has  ordered  us  to  be  at  peace, 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SIIEEPF0LD8.  419 

one  with  another.  Nay,  it  is  answered—He  came  not  to  send 
peace,  but  a  sword.  Yes,  verily  :  to  send  a  sword  upon  earth, 
but  not  within  His  Church  ;  for  to  His  Church  He  said 
"My  Peace  I  leave  with  you." 


THE  END. 


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